Still Horses

The train shudders to a halt, a slow sigh

and there they are—carousel horses, frozen mid-spin,

rusted ribs exposed where paint once shone.

Wind picks at chipped flanks, peeling rust flakes fall

like brittle leaves that won’t touch the ground.

You think they must’ve galloped out years ago,

left to dream in place, waiting for a rider who never came.

One’s nostrils crack, like dry clay cracking,

their manes caught in a stiff breeze,

frozen hooves gripping nothing but air.

The fairground whispers nothing now,

just the creak of metal and the slow drip of rain

slipping off still horses —

a ghost slow dance no one remembers.