It was a cab, worn, withered, and blighted.
A man like a moth-eaten
Archangel Gabriel
Sat on the box of the crazy thing.
Obviously it had been through Hell;
But its inside was musty and threadbare
As though companies of faded virgins
Had ridden in it for generations.
The horse, as you looked at him from the sidewalk,
Staggered with all four legs;