I found the corner where children ride
the worn plastic horse leaping on its post,
tail flying, saddle horn dark from sweat,
leather reins jingling with chrome—but now so
still, so still it made me lonely
for a quarter, for a body small enough
to clamber into the gum-studded saddle
tooled with roses, to kick the red spur
so the pony rolls and champs its bit,
runs away, Muzak whinnying,
other mothers turning to see
who squalls from that wobbling beast
blasting for the sage. Oh centuries,
you are so little for human joy.
ISSUE: Autumn 1984