20160507 (horses)

Horses dead at Gettysburg, all over the ancient world, Europe

The earliest photograph of my

Present home shows a horse and

Buggy parked in front of it. 

Though many regard travel

By horse drawn buggies as

Quaint and picturesque and

Tinged with the love of 

Animals I’d suggest they think

Hard on what these photographs

Rarely show—the muck on

The street and the stench of

Decaying omnipresent horse

Dung. If you could still call

It charming, I’d remind you

That although the system 

Provided ample employment

For buggy drivers, street cleaners,

Stall shovelers, hay salesmen,

Buggy whip makers, and the like,

These were not tasks of high

Romance that Hollywood scenes

Would have you think. Granted

Not all the roads were muddy-muck.

The cobblestones of old London

Readily delivered the clickety-clack

Of iron-banded wheels except

For their semi-silent squoosh 

Through ponypoops. So when 

Henry Ford (and numerous others)

Helped retire those overworked

Creatures and birthed the dogfood

Industries, many were indeed 

Grateful to be able to remove

Boot scrapers from their stoops.

I did not personally witness the

Period. The only horse-drawn

Vehicles I ever encountered were 

Those of the “Paper X” men,

Not characters dressed in snazzy

Rayon suits and given to various

Superpowers, but old Jewish men

Deriving a living from recyclables—

Their cry of “Paper, rags,” corrupted

Through repetition as they drove

Their carts over the red-bricked streets

Of early postwar Cleveland. To a child

(Namely me) their appearance was 

Both intriguing and off-putting. 

Bearded and wearing black hats

Common to their kind, the drivers

Often unnerved me a bit with 

Their strangeness. But if we had

Discards—newspapers and ratty

Old clothes, worn blankets, or such

I’d get to approach the horse, rarely

Seeing their eyes which were shielded

By large square blinders on either

Side. Despite my mom’s forbidding

Me to go near them, I’d rush up to

The huge beasts to feel their legs

Or the sides of their massive chests.

On a really great day the driver

Would give me a carrot to drop

Into the feed bag or—delight of

Delights—hold for them to take

From my hand. I’d have to be

Lifted up for this and I’d see

Their ears flicking away flies,

The intricacies of their harness.

For a boy of three, it made my 

Day. As for the occasional

Droppings, this was only one

Rare horse, maybe come by once 

A month, neighbors let it wash

Away at the curb. Much later

When I learned of wars and

Understood how many of  these

Innocents were slaughtered

Uncomprehendingly and left

To rot on the fields of Europe

And the farms of the southern

States, I would weep for the

Horses who were created for

Better and not even think

Of the soldiers lying dead

Among them.

c. J.S.Manista, 2016