Retired Ballerinas, Central Park West

Retired ballerinas on winter afternoons 
  walking their dogs
  in Central Park West
  (or their cats on leashes—
  the cats themselves old highwire artists) 
The ballerinas
  leap and pirouette
 through Columbus Circle 
 while winos on park benches
 (laid back like drunken Goudonovs) 
 hear the taxis trumpet together
 like horsemen of the apocalypse 
  in the dusk of the gods 
It is the final witching hour
  when swains are full of swan songs 
  And all return through the dark dusk 
  to their bright cells
  in glass highrises
 or sit down to oval cigarettes and cakes 
 in the Russian Tea Room 
  or climb four flights to back rooms
 in Westside brownstones 
 where faded playbill photos
 fall peeling from their frames 
  like last year’s autumn leaves