Oats and Apples

The Winchester
Made a soft
Sliding sound
As it settled into it’s
Leather scabbard.
I slung the saddle bags in place
And strapped down my bedroll.
The cinch strap was tight
But not too tight.
My canteen was slung
Over the pommel
The long hemp rope
At my right knee.

I walked my pony easy

Through town
Just a drifter
Drifting.
Nobody paid much mind
Not even Duffy
Sweeping the walk in front
Of his saloon.
He looked up
Then quickly back to his
More interesting dust particles.
I still felt last night’s whiskey
Burning its way
Into my stomach.

My mind went to all those
Western tales
Where the handsome rider
Leaves behind a grateful village
And a broken-hearted lass.
That’s why it’s called
Fiction.

My pony didn’t much care

Where we were going
As long as it ended in
Oats and apples.

Maybe it’s just that simple.

Where a man comes from

Who he is
What he’s done
Where he’s going
Don’t mean a thing
As long as
For him
And everybody else
It all ends in
Oats and apples.