The Cowboy's Grave/Poem/Bette Wolf Duncan

THE COWBOY'S GRAVE

© 1998 by Bette Wolf Duncan
The cowboys gathered 'round his grave to mourn his passing on,
but deep inside they really felt his life had long since gone.
They shared the same old bunkhouse and they'd known the man for years.
They rode with him; they branded; they all wrestled down the steers.
He'd answer questions put to him; then turn away, or cough;
or grunt some non-committal phrase that cut the speaker off.
He'd let no one get near to him. He neither laughed nor cried.
He didn't seem to feel or care -- like someone dead inside.
Sometimes he'd ride to Rock Creek and stare as ripples passed,
but mostly he'd sit in some chair and gaze into the past.
The way he went was how he spent each day his flesh survived:
He ate his grits, worked hard all day, then just sat down and died.
The day he went was how he spent each summer, spring and fall
and winter, too. When work was through, into his grave he'd crawl.
Died, he had, a long time back. I don't know when or why.
What makes a man give up on life and opt to up and die?