Cowboying Along
It's been a long ride;
beneath me a phantom horse wheezes
its lungs blown.
I chose a slow death
not some youthful suicide.
Illness and a life
misused
took its pound of flesh,
the surgeons knives
were never far from my body.
If I had a Stetson
I would tip it to a fair lady
and ride slowly on,
but I have just this keyboard,
and it does not play
long symphonies any more,
just brief words
that pluck a few
faltering heart-strings.
The sheriff of despair
has chased me
all along this long trail,
so far I am ahead
and so is my horse,
just.
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