a vaquero's drowse

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
cowboy alley

Submitted: May 21, 2013

A A A | A A A

Submitted: May 21, 2013




a crooked alleyway shattered 

like the plateaus and mesas- the cut of dark glaciers

were never challenged,

the drainpipes never stopped.

a bottom-heavy body for this earth, a good man.

he wore legs of dammed rivers, marshy ankles lush and yellow

feeding into the stagnated ponds of his feet;

all his lively wetness poured below his waist

in a cruel tide.

he laid himself out plainly and thick,

a tarred tongue in the guttural voice of the alley.

he loafed against the warm brick walls,

felt the murmurs and hums of squalor

as a nagging ache.

i, a nerve agent, to be doomed and bodiless,

found his downy, heaving lungs cooing like pigeons,

and nested.

coffee was stacked upon the contorted faces of crucifix and Coke

as horned king in this neon totem,

obstructing sockets where stars should have been.

underfoot, crinkled cigarettes took to the fresh puddles like earthworms

after a rain.

his city, a soft, rocking cradle, held these comforts close;

he wrapped himself in the Times and slept quickly, as drunks do.

the vaquero kicks in his sleep of rattlesnakes and worse,

says, she didn't take to brandin', nome, the iron made

'er run like the eyes of the Devil hot on 'er back. she

like to killed 'erself on the barb fence an' i had to

cut 'er chokin' loose. he coughed, squinting into the sky.

nome, didn't like brandin' much atall, he smiled

until he couldn't hold it anymore,

and laughed until his intestines tangled to death.

© Copyright 2019 Caroline Michaud. All rights reserved.

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