| |
|
|
................................................................................................ |
When strollin'
by the old saloon,
on chairs
they kept outside,
I spied a
dried up, lonesome sort
folks walked
by, but eyed
- He had a faithful doggie
- with head laid on his knee,
- the old man stroked him often,
- soft, devotedly
-
- I stopped an’ took a seat nearby,
- then shared a cut of chaw,
- I thought his story might be good,
- he reminded me of Pa
-
- I asked just where he hailed from,
- he didn’t bat an eye,
- looked off in space, took a breath,
- prob’ly thinkin’ up a lie
-
- Come from ever‘where, Son,
- been places you ain’t dreamed,
- I settled back to listen,
- he relaxed a bit it seemed
-
- An Indian fighter I once was,
- rode with the Cavalry,
- met ol’ Yeller Hair himself
- in eighteen, sixty-three
-
- Was wagon master for some folks
- a seekin’ land to claim,
- leavin’ homes an’ fam’lies east,
- guess the west they’d rather tame
-
- Had a wife I sure ‘nough loved,
- two daughters an’ a son,
- the cholera took ‘em all one year,
- my driftin’ then begun
-
- Did some drovin’ ‘hind the herds,
- eatin’ miles a dust,
- catchin’ strays an’ keepin’ watch
- for rustlers we could bust
-
- Owned a ranch in Texas
- but never got no rain,
- the drought, it lasted six years,
- no reason to remain
-
- I killed a man in Denver,
- the bugger had it comin’,
- he kicked my dog, stole my horse,
- broke the guitar I was strummin’
-
- Cut trees out in Wyomin’,
- lumber-jacked a bit,
- camp bully always threatnin’,
- my throat he’d like to slit
-
- I rode the rails a piece back then,
- an’ dern near froze my tail
- sittin’ in them boxcars
- thru’ rain, and snow, an’ hail
-
- Now, I’m nigh on eighty,
- I’m comin’ to my end,
- I thank ya Son for listenin’,
- ya seem ‘most like a friend
-
- I reckon that I’ve lived some
- an’ ain’t sure now I’m done,
- I just take one day at a time
- ‘cause life ain’t easy, Son…
-
|
Poetry by Tamara
Hillman
|
|
Copyright 2005
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
