STAYERS

Almost every morning, we bump-up against
the old days over cigarettes and coffee cups
to bore the be-Jesus out of whichever young buck
happens to politely listen to yesteryear. All the men
and horses with big hearts tough to get along with,
that walked this ground when it was hard, harder than
Billy Hell without a 4WD and RTV. We start our days
amazed how far we’ve come to this perspective,
surviving floods and drought and them with
bigger calves, better corrals and goosenecks.

How envious they must be, looking down in disbelief
—quick pause to nod ‘tween ridge and dawn—
we go on and on, and tell a couple twice before
we remember what triggered the tale: something
out there come alive in our collective mind
before we join them. When I was seven,
you were my first cowboy hero at sixteen,
and now we laugh at the last-half century
without regret, without one ounce of lament,
glad to have a job to do and tickled with life.

                                                                        for Clarence