The idea is to get a horse, a Central Park workhorse.
A horse who lives in a city, over in the hell part of Hell’s
Kitchen, in a big metal tent.
You have to get one who is dying.
Maybe you get his last day on the job, his owner, his
You get his walk back home at the end of the day,
some flies, some drool. You get his deathbed, maybe.
And then, post mortem, still warm, you get the vet or else
to take his three best legs. And then you get the taxidermist
to stuff them
heavy, with some alloy, steel, something.
Next day you go over to Christie’s interiors sale and buy a baby-grand piano,
shabby condition but tony provenance, let’s say it graced the
of some other Vanderbilt’s Gold Coast classic six.
And you ask the welder you know to carefully replace the
with the horse legs, and you put the horse/piano somewhere
like a lobby,
and you hire a guy to play it on the hour, so that everybody
how much work it is to hold anything up in this world.