Skeet
'Mosquito Pete' (or 'Skeet') for short
A seasoned guy, the strangest sort
It was the only name we ever knew
His story known by very few
A weathered old maverick on a country lane
A bit peculiar, not at all ashamed
He never said much, or went anywhere
Kept close to the vest, with a certain air
We are the neighbors who lived down the road
We heard many stories, he liked to reload
He knew what the sun was intending to do
Why the gray clouds curled, why the sky was blue
He would talk of Nebraska, hogs and grain
But mostly about crops, the frost, or rain
Standing alone, on a sun-drenched day
Out in the field, he would call to the Jay
He'd look to sky, horizon in his gaze
transfixed for an hour, as if in a daze
There were hints of a past, within seasoned eyes
and we wondered if somewhere, he had known other skies
But lightly, as the blossoms cling, the years swung around
Tapping on his shoulders, until his songs were sung
A maverick barely known, for many a year
...but today, his stories have all ended here
We see an empty farmhouse, and with a sad disbelief...
Surprised, and unexpected,..immense in our grief
For the story that begun over eighty-plus years ago
there is much,... too much, that we will never know
Who was Skeet...the man that had no name?
Does he have a proper name? something different to exclaim?
Engraved upon a stone..........what could his name be?
Now, "Skeet" will have to do.....for all eternity.......
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For the contest sponsored by Mystic Rose
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