No different than the duck and dally days
driving to a steer, craving horns in an average –
the heady rush of both cigarette and snuff
in the box before the nod, summer nights
addicted to a dream, going down the road,
leaving work and winter watergaps undone.
O’ wild, sweet youth that could not see
beyond the flexed and postured pulse
of faster times, fleeting moments so soon
forgot if cowboys make old cowmen.
Too clearly seen, I judge myself
in their reflection – distort my free
and easy disregard for life that
only time distills to guilt and luck –
and pray, as much, for all of them.