Anasazi Pueblo, New Mexico

We drive into the pueblo and feel its quiet pulse.
I hear it is a town, but I do not see a town.
I only see ochre adobe homes with chipped windows,
laundry for curtains and dust for air.
I see antique children who run without choreography,
dome-shaped ovens filled with swelling tamales.
They are our zoo, our experiment, our theory.
We drive through the narrow gravel,
in our rocket red Chevy four-wheel drive,
with our Hollywood Matsuda sunglasses on,
with our hair blowing through the liberty air.
I feel prosperous in life's parlor,
a winning hand I have been dealt,
I do not have to live in a house built of disintegrated particles,
I do not have to deal the King of Diamonds,
I do not have to drive a rusted cardboard car,
or live on a map drawn by others out of guilt.
I think I have won the prize.
But then I look up to the mesa,
and see a black motionless figure,
a wild horse against the line of land and sky,
standing still on land the color of sedona,
against a sky that is viscous with scarlet, breathing in air
that is pious with the smell of pinon nuts,
they see the horse every day, breathe
this air of supposed shackles,
think the land is linear, the sky is simple,
sit in circles over spirituous tortillas,
telling stories of the horse and the land.
In the House of Pueblo,
my handsome hand holds no prize.

Victoria Chang's Questions:

1. Is the poem engaging?

2. Is the reference to "life's parlor" easy to understand or would something like, "life's roulette" be simpler and more interesting?

3. Does the ending make sense?  Is it clear what I am trying to convey in this poem?