The cattle ranchers
Left over
From a time
Gone by
Yet still
They ride
Whip in hand
Spurs belted
On their boots
Atop a 30lb saddle
With hot blankets under
Cinched to the max
A hard bit in the mouth
Mounted like a staple
In a stable
Rounding up this and that
Hardly able to let go of that
Long ago need to drive the
Cattle to greener pastures
It’s all gone now
Tack room boarded up
Muddy boots on the floor
Tufts of hay stuck to the bottom
Odors of must and powdered dirt
Time to move on, son
Time to move on