The mucky paths
in Bridle Trails
are rarely trod
by hooves.
Instead, the ground
is worn by soles
on fashioned
hiking boots.
Most stables
have been gutted
of their hay,
trough-slosh,
and neighs.
Barn-esque
two-car garages
since outfitted
in their frames.
Some residents
embrace
the artifice
as they renovate
their houses
with farm-style
porches and
lattice gates.
While some
disregard
the landscape’s
past and
equine name,
designing
their houses
modern-chique-
sleek and
function-feigned.
Their gardeners visit
some weekdays
to tame the
wild lawns,
grass segmented
by fences
to suggest
it’s kept by
grazing maws.
What’s left is
semblance
and adults
playing pretend.
A whole
neighborhood
engaged in
bygone imitation.
Consider the wealth,
the opulence
required to maintain
this agrarian
illusion.
Bridle Trails will
soon be horseless
and its rich
in sham
seclusion.
pm poetry 