Tailgate Toss

Rocky acres stretch the distance
you fumble with new boots and old
leather gloves.
The cold sting of morning rides with you,
thick rope on a river wave.

You pass God on the way,
fifteen again, hunting rabbits
lost, He led you home.
You wonder where He went
after that.

You learned how to tie a noose from an uncle
that couldn’t stop drinking,
his cracked nails and cigarette hands
gripping, dirty.
Gone before
he decided to go.

Spring should last longer out in the fields
and the sunlight understands.

Wild horses once pounded the earth here,
perfectly.
The world gets smaller from the last good branch on the tree
and you toss the rope like water
it splashes, hanging
thickly
neck fits
two steps off the tailgate
you see the breeze come down the valley
and swing
for
ever.