GRANDPA

11 04 12

With his brittle bones
 and his sun cracked face
   he rode near ‘bout every mile
  of the round-up trail.

He licks the wind
  and stares out at nothing
   tobacco dripping lip, spits.
Hell, I fought the sun,
  and I won
   fought a sneakin’ coyote once,
  he lost.
Broke rattlesnakes in half
  between bare hands.
Got caught in the drought of the Tulsa ride, too.

Thought I’d die in that damn burning desert
    never have I thirst, so much
  for one wet drop.
They found me about four miles from Breakers Pass.
Eighteen-ninety-seven,
   that was my last long ride.
Too many damn city boys
   tryin’ to run the drive.

And now my grandson drives off
   in that noisy pick-up.
He’ll never know the dry taste
   of sand and grainy dust
  between your teeth.
Wind kicking in your face
    like a thousand angry hoofs
   punched in your mouth.

And my friend,
  cold black night.

Damn all this fancy fiddle.

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