Pony Express, Almost
I sang a song over the olive branch today,
And nobody listened.
So I remarked how cruel death is
When life is dead
And dreaming is only violent.
Still, I was not heard against the night.
Then I whispered long and low
To an empty room
Wherein I slept, uncovered.
It was very hot in that close room.
There was a rider approaching
from the dawn.
It was the pony express, almost.
His saddle bags were empty,
And the pale rider was only thirsty.
Finally, we sat together
At an empty table
And gambled what we had.
He bet his years and his trail of dust.
I could only ante up my life,
Wanting his pony.
At the end of the story
I rode away on his bare steed,
And the rider kept the saddle.
Copyright © Bill Yates | Year Posted 2016
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