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Show Camping-out Indoors Nothing much to flare up, nowdays. We burn, then smolder, then go out like brushfire embers under clean, dark sky. On the empty beds in this lodgepole bunkhouse: dusty mattresses stained with sweat, love, whiskey tears. Four walls mourn, dark with smoke and confidences, pierced with nails, hung with worn-out ropes, chaps, bits, spurs: relics of a life burning low, dying sweet and hard. The young guys are alright-don't know a rope from their ass, but wanna learn- get the hell out of it, I tell 'em. Go live in town, sell insurance, real estate, any damn thing. Mick's in the old folks' home, Dean's dying in Laramie, Christ! Nobody left to sleep with the empty bottles under the Pine Creek Bridge or ride a mule down Main. In the fall, when they trail shippers to the railroad corrals at Yellow Springs, I'll be riding west with the herd, maybe pass the Springs and go on a ways after they're loaded. Someplace west, who knows? When the word comes, I'll mount up, move on. |