Snap the Whip

I have an epigonic copy
Of Winslow Homer's "Snap the Whip,"
Lovingly, slushily counterfeited
By a dilettantish lady,
Anonymous, though perhaps she belonged
To the local Women's or Fine Arts Club.
I bought it years ago from a shop
Devoted to secondhandled wares,
Unwanted gifts and pensioners' cruft,
And other ejecta cast from attics
Or jounced off a junkman's rattletrap truck.
It signifies the exuberance
Of youth--of boyhood especially--
And though its figures are not as crisp
As in Homer's versions (he painted two),
Their spirits survive:
The long-legged lead boy surges ahead,
Strains to break the invisible tape
That certifies he alone shall win;
The gallused kid being tugged between
The lad out front and the postpile-stubborn
Pair behind him--feet rooted, unyielding--
May lose his limbs;
In the far quartet, in the lesser wing
Of this sling-crash galaxy, sonny-starred,
That one has stumbled, see him tumble,
Soon he'll skid across the field,
His hands and knees will scrape and bruise,
And later Pop will tan his hide
For smutting up his umber suit.
If ever a thieving reprobate
Swipes the original from the Met,
I'll freely bequeath my household's jewel,
This shoddy likeness, to take its place.