The prancing horses of Central park
are bridled and broken like
the immigrant men who drive them.
their shoes , appropriate for the late
18th century, are anachronistic on
these cement streets.
Their dress, uncomfortable and unclean, have too many bells and buckles.
They are scenery along with the blooming crab apple,
the windblown lake, the British tourists.
They are dead, you know?
The horses?
The men?
The geese and their plastic feathers?
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