Mournin' A Cowboy/Poem/Tamara Hillman

Mournin' a Cowboy

He had to go—

it was his fated lot

to ride broncs in the rodeo,

take his licks—win the pot.

He hated to let go

kissing her at the door,

tussling hair of his two sons,

wanting one hour more.

She watched his old truck

as he drove down the lane

saying a prayer

he’d come home once again.

As years had gone by,

she’d watch an’ wait—

dust twirling behind him

till he’d stop at the gate.

A place waited in Cheyenne

to draw his saddle bronc,

ride that critter to ground,

or ‘til buzzer might honk.

He’d make his mark,

bring a thrill to the crowd,

but knew in his heart,

t’was to make his gal proud.

Just one more big purse

an’ he could retire,

go back to the ranch,

find some wranglers to hire.

Along about sunset,

he pulled into town,

surveyed the landscape

of the rodeo grounds.

Tomorrow he’d be there

with chaps an’ with spurs

to contest with cowboys

an’ watch the dust stir.

The next day he rose

at his usual time—

long before dawn

as he’d done since his prime.

By quarter to eight,

he drew for the horse

he’d have to unravel,

an’ defeat in due course.

He took a deep breath

as he read ‘Crazy Pete’,

a horse most men hated

since most he’d unseat.

He couldn’t be bothered

with the loss of his luck.

He’d still have to win

to take home a few bucks.

********

The phone started ringing—

he promised he’d call.

She hoped he would say

he’d made a big haul.

But the voice wasn’t his

that called her by name,

to tell her he’d passed,

there was no one to blame.

Just a horse an’ his rider—

the two had to meet,

beast against man

as they strove to compete.

His mind had been set

on this horse he’d defeat,

but her world was shattered

‘neath the hooves of old Pete.

© 2013, Tamara Hillman

This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.