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.
___________________________
THE CIRCUS . . . . . . . . . AND THE ZOO 