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Cowboy Poetry and Western Verse
Tequila And A Smoke
Delia J. Fry
Strong is the noon heat
High up on the mountain
It reaches up from the canyon
And the dry air takes his breath
But the old Vaquero rides on
On to his birth land, Mexico
Once a rough rider, a herder
Busting bronco’s, working hard
The women, drink, friends
Now he can barely sit his horse
In a rising heat he cannot fathom
Born in Mexico on a mountain
And now ailing, will die here
The dull ache in his gut constant
The sudden loss of pounds
Weight he could afford to lose
He was a tall man over six feet
And now he feels he is shrinking
Such a proud man this Vaquero
His mother a Spanish lady
His father and Indian brave
With the clear blue eyes of his mother
And the indomitable spirit of his father
A mestizo and proud of it
Now alone in mind and spirit
Yet if others had known
They would have traveled with him
But he has always been a loner
It is his last ride, his final search
To find shade of the tree, his birth tree
So he climbs his mountain
Being here sustains him
His will has pushed him home
In the most extreme conditions
And there is the tree, big and shady
Next to a boulder and scattered rocks
Just a few more feet then rest
He sits on his horse for a while
The climbs down slowly
Night will come soon enough
And it will be cold
He dreads his next task
Now he unsaddles his horse
He will not dry with the blanket
He will not brush him
He will not give him water
The horse obediently waits
Instead the Vaquero slaps his rump
He chases him away angrily
Tears come as he waves him off
Vayase! Rapido! Andale!
The horse moves away slowly
So many years together, gone
He drags his saddle and bridle
His fine holster and gun with them
He pushes them into a crevice
Dust rises as they plummet
He puts another pebble in his mouth
To help fight off his thirst
All he has left are his trappings
His sombrero, kerchief, chaqueta, sarape
His faja, a long red sash, a mecate
Leggings, old boots and beautiful spurs
And a pair of worn huarches
Except for his felt sombrero and boots
And a worn picture of his parents
The rest are wrapped in a worn blanket
He has food for a few days and tequila
He will not try to stay alive by eating
He will crave water and drink it
That and the four bottles of tequila
His strength has returned some
After drinking from the nearby spring
Water that seeps from a rock crack
He has drenched himself in it
Washing away the miles of dust
His clothes are laid on rocks to dry
The finality of life does not scare him
Peace came when he reached Mexico
And now up high on the mountain
He hunkers down against the tree
Takes a pouch from the blanket
Slowly rolls a cigarette, lights it
He welcomes the smoke in his lungs
Then sips the tequila little by little
His life has not lasted long enough
Where was the girl he meant to love
The children to sit upon his knee
It was not a wasted life but still
The miles he rode, the cattle
The sleepless night on the prairie
The man he killed in Texas
Too much to remember now
Sadness overcomes him, he cries
How long with it take he ponders
Til his last breath in this inferno
He wearies of his thoughts
So he settles and waits for sleep
A respite from his travel
It may take days until he dies
But he is ready, soon he hopes
There will be no grave for him
No family, priest or friends
He has no need for this
Just him and the mountain
And tequila and a smoke
Delia J. Fry 2012
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