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Cowboy Poetry and Western Verse
Old Hands
Douglas Polk
the old cowboy at the end of the bar,
talked with his hands,
when he set his beer down,
his hands would dance,
as he told his story,
riding a bronc,
or roping a steer,
the hands gave the tale depth and color,
each finger pointing to a different cardinal direction,
the knuckles swollen,
and warped,
like old wood left in the rain,
yet his old hands,
possessed a grace and gentleness,
easy to see,
but hard to describe,
maybe from the calves birthed,
or the cows nursed,
the horses curried and massaged,
after a hard day's ride,
these very same hands,
wrapped around a cold brew,
at the end of the bar. |
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