285. HORSES

HORSES
The clip-clop of this distorted horse was different;
one leg, perhaps was lame. The two cops atop,
sitting high and regal, had come out of the
Hudson Street Stables some five minutes ago,
and were making their way slowly uptown.
The sound I kept hearing was hard, like
a hammering on the roadway's surface
with a higher range, a tenor tone, a
flavor I didn't expect.
-
These two horses, I was sure, had
thoughts just then of their country lane -
the Hudson Street of archetypes embedded
in their equine brain - a well-trod dirt path,
a few ground animals scurrying about, and
birds flitting tree-to-tree. (So foreign to them
this pavement and traffic should be). The
tall buildings around them, silent and
coarse, welcomed nothing but shadow
and darkness.
-
The sun going down
was lengthening the street.
Shadows grew long
and dark grey.