macabre of wooden clones. No sunrise,
no sunset, colors their days. They prance,
fixed like stars in flashing skies.
The calliope - a toothless lion -
spurs blooded steeds with fife and drum.
Hoofs flail as Pegasus takes flight.
Spell-bound, the children, Scarsdale's scions,
float by in their aquarium -
mouths forming o's of pink delight.
Captives of the stolen hour,
mothers wait, resigned and dour.
Wind blows; a serpent's tongue is hot.
Ride to green grottoes with childish squeals
before dust settles, red paint peels
and the horses trot to Camelot.
Mary Engelberg
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