Classic Poem

Way up there, so high and well fed
they seem to be gods
or at least ridden by gods,
the high horses walk — so well bred

little disturbs them. Sedately,
they show off their steps,
canter right, canter left perhaps
a brief trot, the perfect lifting of one knee

after another, and then
that exquisite gallop, that arrogance
of the totally convinced,
that disdain. Then down

off the high horses
come their riders at last,
little men of the past,
clad in bright silken colors.











From Poetry Magazine, Vol. 185, no. 3, Dec. 2004. Used with permission.