The Cowboy

[couchgrouch]

The CowboyWe were holed up in the bunkhouse, duststorm raging outsidewe drank rye and traded stories, about Texans who could rideev'ry boot at the table, had made the stirrup its wifebut there was one spur we knew of, who wore its pony for lifeone said he rode from Houston, no relation to anyone elsetan hat...tall horse and a Hohner, he was kin all to himselfI recalled how he rescued, four calves from a flooded passas good a dancer as a rider, ev'ry bar skirt knew him asthe cowboywhose home was the lonesome plainsthe cowboywho let fortune take the reinsfreedom met the skylinewherever he wentfor no mountain or desertcould ever fencethe cowboythough his work was risky, he took more as time went onhe'd say riding hard for sundown, was better than mourning dawnduring a long sandstorm, some kid wanted to scout aheadbut he told that pup to stay put, and rode away insteadthen we stopped drinking and talking, we knew the end of the talethe cowboy never came back, his outfit turned back on the trailmaybe it was just the whiskey, but we heard hoofbeats on the winddid his bones wear a bandanna, was he just now riding inyeah, the cowboywhose home was the lonesome plainsthe cowboywho let fortune take the reinsfreedom met the skylinewherever he wentfor no mountain or desertcould ever fencethe cowboy(c)2004 Robert George