In the old days when every territory
was a new frontier,
a baby boy clinging to my shoulders,
we rode stairway hillsides
through dining room canyons
along kitchen trails,
wrestled bad guys down in carpet grass
and hid in ambush behind boulder chairs
Now that the greenhorn has galloped
to his own Durango,
I’ve hung up my handguns for good
Many a night wrapped in a blanket,
I crouch in front of a fireplace,
listen to the high winds neigh,
cold and lonely on this prairie
with the ghosts of our palominos