The Conservatory horseshoe pit, Long a hobo-jungled ruin, Was made again last year By volunteers and money, Asphalt, rebar and white paint. Now, in March, the stakes, Some thirty-two in folded file, Stand like rifles in the wet sun. Nobody is here. Nobody will be. Nobody plays horseshoes now In San Francisco. There is no click, There is no clack; no curses And no yells. Above the pit, Twice lifesize in bas-relief But sliding from the withers, A white horse, in old concrete, Prances on without his torso.