Oh, he still rides here in Irving’s bucolic corner
Of the Hudson Valley, chasing some harried jogger
On a poster promoting some 5K race, or perhaps pictured
Astride his horse, tuxedo-clad, severed head winking outrageously
In an advertisement for a charity evening at some grand former estate
With an equally grand view of the river.
He is less conspicuous in that part of the village
Which is, say, west of Broadway and south of Beekman,
Where the neon signs in the bars tout Corona and Dos Equis,
And the argot on the sidewalks and street corners
Is not the Dutch of the Van Brunts and Van Tassels,
But every bit as Greek to their progenitors,
Who own the homes and expansive lawns
Tended to by the denizens of the neighborhood,
Or who work in the Mid-town office towers they scrub and shine.
Not that they come to that part of town anyway, mind you;
They fail to see the rustic charm of a vague fear
Of something or someone hurtling toward them from behind.