A POEM

If outside on your back porch you reclined, smoking expensive cigarettes, but could not rest for the steady knocking from beyond the fence, surely you might cross the yard, climb and peer over to see an overgrown toy horse, made from wood and green-painted, knocking its snout against the wall. Did we used to stand gape-faced in wonder, you might ask, did we explore mountain-temples and slip back on thunderheads to terrorize suits and movie-goers? But it's grimace, which has always been a grimace will stay right where it has always been grimacing and knock against a fence-plank and you'll stand gape-faced with your expensive cigarette and wonder; conspicuous Persian-blue clouds hang as if from strings and avoid one another.