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