Le Cortège... Poem by Frank James Ryan Jr...fjr

Cobblestone had propensity
to be snared by rusted shoes.
One could hear the Clydesdale
murmuring in pain,
the sharp, scraping sound
as each hoof slapped down
on the stones 'neath its u-shaped soles,
bending awkwardly slanted at the knee,
writhing, silently, forward in stride.
Yet no one paid much mind
except for its worthy counterpart,
leather strapped, by his side,
suffering from equal strain.
And, so goes,
the proverbial 'caisson
rolling... along',
for the likes of Hayes
Buchanan and Coolidge
of executive privilege
in office and death,
passing their boyhood stomping-grounds
for a final, silent curtain call,
as tradition respected, demanded
before a 'New Deal'
creating new jobs...
and smooth blacktop;
back when horses were iron,
struggling for miles long
o'er breaks, and hills
as if they'd been bred
for Capriole Equestrian!
Knees bent...head held high,
carrying wood boxes
of pine, oak and cherry
in uniformed stride
when summoned by death
of a Commander In Chief,
summoned for funeral plans,
a cortege- an honour grandeur
down the street to the Crosses
at Arlington, rows of white,
and where all stop to Rest.





©Frank James Ryan Jr/FjR
MMXX All Rights Reserved