The mist rose to my ankles.
The cattle were restless as pigs.
Fumble ‘round for the car keys,
The hip flask: 2 nips,
And the cigs.
Drove stick through the blackness.
On side-band I heckled the moon.
All the drover’s kids went searching
For memories worth keeping.
They left nothing,
It’s over too soon.
I stand pillared by the petrified pulpit.
The herd murmurs, “prices look low.”
As I light up a fresh one,
A slight wind is a-coming.
Drop the hand and let go.
Damn hard to grow,
But harder to say goodbye.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment