Sawhorses
       

Are these the fabled "horses of the Sun,"
This team of no-trick ponies, these stick horses,
So far off now their stratospheric courses?
Are these what's left of the race we read was run,
Outside the carriage house's doors he squints
In sizing up? Time flies. If there are hints

Of the old line left in them, what do they draw
For the charioteer without the robe or reins
But just a ball cap and some Bailey planes?
A sheet of worked-up figures, some old saw,
And a few board feet once known as "wandering heart."
Time flew. Has flown. And who would call this art?

And yet recall your reckless eyes were lit
To stand behind them on your father's lawn
And dream the tall High Flyer Phaeton
Go blazing fast and touch the brace and bit
You couldn't turn but asked to try. "Village
In flames and river dry"? Not quite, but still.

And still a flame though cooler now aspires
In these two rearing cutouts with a look
He got from Greek amphoras in a book—
A simulacrum of those higher fliers
In brilliant heats they tumbled in, or won—
Hitched to a gilt medallion of the sun.

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Copyright © 2013 Greg Williamson All rights reserved
from Able Muse
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission