The willful rooster
crows his head off,
The old lady coughs and coughs,
Gossipers plot, “Did you see what she did?”
Someone else flips their lid.
Amongst all the chatter,
I only wonder, “ what’s the matter?”
“Where’s solace from my loyal friend?”
Not to worry, he’s working within,
His studio amidst his paint.
“Hi Ho, let’s get where we ain’t,”
He grins as he catches a certain light,
Heavens waiting for that fight.
They call it genius these works he does,
Of sky, meadow, buffalo he loves.
Rather I call it minding his own,
Of canvas filled with steer and roan
If a bit of paint from gravity drips to the floor,
Never mind, it only will join some more,
Of another time, another space,
When a cowboy was the painted face.
