Seasoned

His voice is like a rusty hinge that swings a gate in rain.

He walks a cowboy strut on legs that protest and complain.

One finger has gone AWOL since a dally cut it clean.

Deep creases near his eyes are maps to all the things he’s seen.

There’s more hair on his hands than what still sprouts upon his head.

His sweat-stained, battered hat sits square as rain and snow are shed.

Work starts before the sky sloughs off the stars like flaky skin

and doesn’t end until another night has stumbled in.

He eats two meals a day out of an ancient cast-iron pot

that Cookie serves as culinary torture, though it’s hot.

The ground has been his mattress, cheap, available, and near.

It’s served him in the heat and cold throughout his long career.

The work is hard and dang’rous, pays a dollar every day. S

ometimes the boss will let him take a calf in lieu of pay.

A cowboy’s life’s romantic ’tween the covers of a book,

but he needs grit and gristle if you take a closer look.

He proves his worth on horseback, lives his life in dirt and grime.

Although he works for others, they own nothing but his time.