and faded to touch.
The smell of use and worn metal blossomed
each time a quarter gave life to the idoled horses.
Heads to the wind.
The old tinny tune led me away,
to a place of bright tulips,
ruffled cream parasoles
and picnics on the greenest grass.
The song kept you here,
long after the horses returned
to the dirty store front.
"Daisy, Daisy, up with the morning blue..."
still faded to touch.
Heads to the wind. Northbound,
on the cluttered freeway and
strapped to the back of a truck.
Motionlessly they gallop away,
this childhood still on their backs.
"And now it's time to rise and shine,
as I whistle "good-day" to you."