The Last Trail for Big John (for John Miller)

Step by step on gravel

dirt or pavement

one foot goes in front

He is lucky enough

to have one leg

Age can make a leg

heavy as a roped beef

that bawls out

grounded in the branding

His last saddle

surrounded by food

and medicine bottles

Back and forth

one grabs this or that

to leave

to save a later effort

along the way

To pass the laundry

sister folded

a towel is grabbed

to dry the dish of the day

or to drop off a dirty towel

of a forgetful nurse

This path is way beyond

the year of rowdy youth

who wasted time and energy

on a ranch or at the bar

to make fences for his body

Some paths are scratched

by a false appendage

that tears at floors

No edges of danger rugs here

Sometimes the bones

in the last knee

click like a dead battery

in an orange and white taxi

adding pain to the meter

TVs are heard outside

for ears who trace

a softer path

Spots grow on skin

with livers blamed

who claim false accusation

The trail to here

fades in dimming eyesight

This chair raises a foot

and lowers a head

until the sun sets

as the last ride

puts two ghost feet

in the stirrups

It could be Fruita

the Hart Ranch

or Blackhawk

where this cowboy

ropes an angel

that flew in front

of his saddled lightning

Barry G. Wick