cowboys 

they rode through the west, 
tired men who smelled bad 

fixing fences, chasing cows, 
drinking coarse whiskey, playing 
cards & singing the occasional 
sad song, high 

plains drifters who knew 
there was legend in the way 
they squinted & spat 
into the setting sun 

if they misbehaved and took 
the times straight on like the hard-born 
well, there were just so many sunsets, 
just so many saloons & whores & hitching 
posts a man could tie to, and don't 
you doubt it for a minute, these men 
knew who they were, and how long 
they had, and when it was time to go, 
they left 

all except for Butch & Sundance, still 
down there in Argentina, shooting up 
trains, bending the corners of their cards, 
practicing for the day they'd come 
to your town, with Buffalo Bill & Houdini, 
ready to get reconciled 
for all them things they done

 

© Copyright 2000 Peter Chapman

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