Old Luke and the Stew
I tied ole paint at the old cowboy’s shack. He’d been in the crib mucking stalls, haying a little and shucking corn.
I observed him at his chores from the porch as the day kept limping on He asks, if I’d stay for dinner sense the morning was pert near gone. “Sure,” I said, “I’d be obliged to set and eat, enjoy some country fare removed my boots, leaned back and took the load off my feet.
He sat the table with a steaming stew, pert near out of heaven’s recipe book but Luke, his old hound dog, seemed to hold a grievance with his eye staring, devious look. The old man seized a piping hot biscuit and buttered it good and rich. He dipped a bowl of stew for himself and cleaned the dipper pert near with a lick.
He took a glass from the table, removed his dentures to lay them free, flung the water out the window and handed the glass to me.
He dipped me a bowl of his brew and it smelled so good and all, So, I just run my tongue over the rim, pert near lapped it like a dog.
And though thirst tucked my throat, and the devil’s pleating temped me
and I pert near had a taste for it but I just couldn’t rope that tea.
Old Luke lay at my feet and sniffed his twitching nose
His eyes glued me with that stare, checking me out, I suppose.
So, I slid my hand to his head for a pat or maybe, a scratch
but his gums rolled up and there was a growl and a snap before I could jerk my fingers back.
“Old Luke is pert near touchy,” I declared, “If the truth be all told.”
The cowboy mused with a winking eye “that mutt hates to share his bowl.”
Copyright © Patrick Kelly | Year Posted 2022
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