Of the creeds of horses and beliefs of dogs,
I claim no knowing—only this:
they ponder mine as little as I ponder theirs.

Even here, in this, I am shaky, ignorant.
Knowledge, fleeting as always, escapes me now,
and the themes I grasp leave me cold in the autumn

of this perfect day, free and out of work,
not the slightest bit confused on which is which.
The waitress frees the chained-together chairs.

I choose the best chair, how we humans know
a mystery to the only other souls:
the tourist horse and the dissipated panting dog.

The others—there are no others here—
I cannot see, but I admit their presence
and fear I may in my ignorance offend them,

fumbling phrases, doubting their rite:
which serves as wafer, which as wine.
The waitress brings me fresh orange juice. I wait.

‘What heavy thoughts,’ the lying dog must think,
‘occupy the draught horse, dreaming its fly whisks,
avoiding whinnying except when part of the service.’

A man in shorts, cap, and camouflage shirt
ascends the eight, marble, steps next door
and goes inside, the horse seems sure, to hosannas.

It is early and with no custom, and the chef himself
provides me, seated outside in the best chair,
my fish and loaf while I turn at the sound of hooves

behind me, across the Prinsengracht, where barks
pursue the horse, mane damp with the city’s weight,
propelling, by pulling, a cart of intentional tourists.

A dove, conspiratorial and keen,
settles in the chair beside me, murmurs,
‘Where does all this lead?’—not kindly, but slyly.

I give him thoughtless invective, the only kind
that counts against me. Father, I have sinned.
The sun blinks out; the phantoms fold into shade.

They, the dog and the draught horse, reappear
on the tales of clouds resuming autumn coverage
of the best chair, mine. Guests arrive.

Each claims the best chair as her throne,
silent as we feast on separate truths,
while the dog and horse dream far beyond us.