So, clean the red buckets
or don't scrub a thing.
Maybe ride the finest
gelding; that boy's 100-K
at least. Fix what's black,
make it white-smooth,
or watch someone greater
get the leg up, becoming
the cowboy you’ll never
see again. Teach the kids
how to win, that blood
and bruises and blisters
are temporary. Always.
Or, head down the drive
and lose every single child
at once. The tortoise cat lives
or dies. Down at the gate,
Mac the dog smiles, almost
forever. Soon comes the pack,
barking, catching up, seeking
out game scents, trusting
the air for signs, whether
danger or play. Above all,
when the scene chokes up,
grip the wheel, moving
with the wind and rocks.
And when the road runs
out, breaking the back
of work, you suddenly
realize that no one ever
came close, that no one
ever knew your twisted
insides, but like live gods,
now that you’re gone,
maybe they’ll whisper
your name, seeing traces –
a handprint in the dust,
a boot track in the lounge,
all loose boards nailed
tight, the rules and lesson
times that were forgotten,
and suddenly, they too
will live, buried within
you, wherever you go,
long after you clock out.
So, walk in silence
or hammer something.
C.A. MacConnell
