Irishman

We have to pay on Friday.
And it’s a long weekend.
Everyone is rushing.
Mountains, sea.

Some ponies were unlucky…right?

No one is likely to go where the Irishman stands.
The north of the country, some forest, some wooden houses. Some swamp and crickets.

“You! He’s from Ireland! Well, I’m telling you. He came by plane. There he started racing and won a lot. He gave birth to many foals. She has paper like a doll, only I lost it, but my parents are like that, you’ll squat down when you see it…” the tradesman croaks, a bit tipsy.

Then he gives the little guy two kicks to make him move.
Finally “the LORD is coming”…

Tears escape me furtively.
But I know that horses receive equal beatings at races and in recreation under children. And with the carriages.

It’s a people issue. Not the situation itself.
These tears of mine are probably for all of them…

“Are you buying this Irishman or is he just sniffing around like everyone else?” a bearded, pink-faced man looks at me suspiciously. But what should I tell him?

My “buy” depends on you.
His life is the same.

I don’t know if I’ll come back here on Friday with cash, or if I’ll just wipe a few tears and go do what I always do.

The Irishman glances at me uncertainly. Wherever he came from, it wasn’t Ireland. When I reach out to take some close-up photos, he’s shaking and trying to climb into the wall. These kicks are probably the order of the day.

So I have a question.
To you.
To the one who decides.

Will you be with the Irishman today?
Before Friday comes and they take him away?

Will you stand here next to me?