I’d spur electric on adrenaline and lust.
She’d figure-8 those barrels
on her Crimson Missile sorrel—
we’d make the night air swirl with hair and dust.
At some sagebrushed wayside, 3 A.M.,
we’d water, grain, and ground-tie Missile.
Zip our sleeping bags together,
make love in any weather,
amid the cactus, rattlers, and thistle.
Seems the moon was always full for us—
its high-diving shadow kicking hard.
We’d play kid games on the big night sky,
she’d say that bronco’s Blue-Tail Fly,
and ain’t that ol’ J. T. spurrin’ off its stars?
We knew sweet youth’s no easy keeper.
It’s spent like winnings, all to soon.
So we’d revel every minute
in the music of our Buick
running smooth, two rodeoin’ lovers
cruising to another—
beneath Montana’s blue roan
bucking horse moon.
The Augusta perf at 2, we’d
place again,
then sneak off to our secret Dearborn River spot.
We’d take some chips and beer and cheese,
skinny-dip, dry off in the breeze,
build a fire, fry the trout we caught.
Down moonlit gravel back to blacktop,
she’d laugh and kill those beams for fun.
That old wagon road was ours to own—
30 shows since I’d been thrown
and 87 barrels since she’d tipped one.
We knew that youth won’t keep for rainy days.
It burns and turns to ash too soon.
So we’d revel every minute
in the music of our Buick
running smooth, two rodeoin’ lovers
cruising to another—
beneath Montana’s blue roan
bucking horse moon.
From All This Way for the Short Ride
(Museum of New Mexico Press, 1996)
© Paul Zarzyski. All rights reserved. These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
Painting by Larry Pirnie
