The Old Blog in the Desert

Soul aching,
Dreaming of bucolic home,
Green grass, greener trees,
Blue sky and cotton cloud.
Only the hint of a breeze
Drifting in from a Pacific sea.

Survival mounted on brackets
and remembrances of youth:
Uncoiled and coiled rope,
Burning cow-hair stink,
Early morning chores,
Cattle lowing,
Yellow porch light,
And nighttime.

Five year hitch, the manic life
Brutal heats, pounding rains, boredom
Embrace the suck.
Countdown to a-day-and awake-up.
“Man, you is so old school.”

Names and the faces,
Men coming,
Going, going,
Gone.

Then all is gone,
To the highest bidder’s
Low ball.
Gone too is Grandpa,
Cowboy and soldier, drunk.
Burned up by shell-shock
And the fraternal alcoholic.

There would be but one horse
Left for the sacking out.
No burlap sacks and tin-cans,
No sea-bags or hand grenades.

Adapt and overcome
With nothing more than talk
To compel its needed death
Knowing it’s set to sunfish,
Stomp another half-century:
That dreaded ‘Night Hoss.’

That’s what he called it
The same steed Grand-dad rode
After the War-to-End-All-War,
So laugh and drink and toast.

It would not surprise the old man
To know his grandson
Had corralled the same reckless ride.