the bronze rider whips a bronze horse,
but they never gallop across the river.
they pose, frozen for the smiths, the lees,
garcias, and johnsons taking selfies.
the sinking western sun gleams
where ten thousand hands
have caressed their flanks
and gear. the rider and horse
stare unblinking at our blazing star
as night falls and the river breezes
stir the candy wrappers and flyers
for the latest tribute band playing at
the old west saloon down the street.
a feral cat stalks a boot
in the basement pit
where the riverview hotel stood
before it burned down in forty seven.
black walnut sapling volunteers
sprouting in the brick piles
screen her kittens from
the friday night bar hoppers.
every afternoon, janice fills
a swanson's pieplate
with fish-flavored kibble
and leaves it in the rubble.
it's all gone by dawn when
the cat snoozes and suckles
her kittens in her bed inside
a crumpled laura scudder's
potato chip box and
the morning dew glistens
on the rider and the horse.
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