The place was real quiet,
The lights were down low.
There were plenty of people,
All moving kinda slow.

I walked by some doorways,
Averting my sight.
I don’t like to intrude,
It’s not considered polite.

My feet found his room,
At the end of the hall.
Had both legs in a cast,
A result of his fall.

He’d said he was ready,
But the bull had been smarter.
He caught so much air,
Should have rented a charter.

Now he’d ended up here,
After hittin’ the ground.
I reckon he was out,
He weren’t making no sound.

Then one eye popped open,
As I walked to his side.
And the old cuss inquired,
About when he’d next ride.

So despite his condition,
We drew up a plan.
We would cut off his casts,
And head to Cheyenne.

Now don’t shake you heads,
Or murmur words of complaint.
Men like us with no ride,
That’s not livin’; it just ain’t.

© Lincoln Rogers

Colorado Poet, Lincoln Rogers, has had numerous cowboy poems published by the Rocky Mountain Fence Post and American Western Magazine.

High Country Communications