Here's a new poem. Surprised? Have at it -- is it boring, blah, etc.?

My Mother Draws a Horse

after the fifth time I beg and maybe
promise to clean my room

she sits at the table with the dusty lace cloth
in the mirrored yellow room used
for strangers and holidays

if I am lucky she will make it a pinto
splashes of white and black
like dark continents fixed
on a moving milky sea

the horse has her ears bent forward
concentrating on what’s just ahead
off the page

it’s always the same horse
the same size of a handprint
nostrils a little too large as if
she’s breathing hard

it’s always the same horse
and she’s always running

when my mother’s done
she bites her pinky the same way,
it’s ugly
I don’t know what I’m doing

and I smooth her hair behind her ear
so short I stand while she sits
and I whisper, it’s pretty, it’s so pretty