Monday, February 26, 2007


Standing about six-foot-five
Plus two inches of boot heel
If you stood him up straight,
John is topped by a black
Felt hat that's pulled down
Tight because he doesn't like
To chase it in the wind.
Unless otherwise occupied
His thumbs stay hooked in his
Pants pockets because there's
Not much else to do with 'em
When he's talking to someone.
It used to be he always had
A ready smile for just about
Everyone that came his way
But the cares of trying to
Build his own herd have
Made that smile so scarce
You sometimes wonder if
His best friend just died.
His face is lined with years
That age him faster than the
Calendar or his friends from school
That went on to city jobs because
The pay was better and the work
Wasn't nearly so hard.
But John's a survivor made
From the stock that built this
Western country from scratch
Way back before the roads or
The fences cut it into nice, neat
Patches that call it tamed.
He's an anachronism --
Living a life that many a youngster
Once dreamed of living before
Reality crashed and sent them
Scurrying for safety and security.
Loneliness and wind and too much
Sun have left their mark on this man
That was born at least a hundred
Years after his allotted slot in
The ribbon of time had
Already passed by.

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