Bronc Breaking Hank

Nina Cheng

 

Dirt-battered blades of dry grass bend over for the cowboy,

Conqueror of these horses and cattle, hairy buffalo, mangy coyotes, everything

tame or wild on the range.  The buckskins and paints swing around the dusty auburn horizon,

their cowboy—been there for decades—sits hunched among them,

hours after the righteous gentleman has lined up his silver fork

                                                             parallel to his silver knife

and indulged in his rib-eye steak and potatoes, and the non-righteous ol’ bum (just another drunk)

with his empty stomach has hung around the frothy bar with drywoodfloors

longer than his dingy shriveled-up liver could bear.

 

They said this old cowboy wasn’t one nor the other, but some strange elixir of both—

you know that straggly gold and gray forged in them California waters—

or maybe not like them at all.

As the bronze sun ripples off to a prettier destination,

The mahogany saddle-softness of a warm evening breaks in,

and the chip-toothed bums swig just one keg too many—drink themselves to death,

and the beautiful gentlemen with their pinwheel silver spurs stick their chins up and speak

about a dazzling thing called pride (which not many men can have, so they say)—

end up shooting each other dead center of the heart with brandnewshinymetal pistols,

just bought this week, just polished last night.

And the few men still alive pondered about the cowboy

Yes, he’s still out there every sunset and every sunrise—

and asked Lord how he stay that way, stay alive so long that way?

 

But old Hank hears only cows and horses

cause he’s the one man ’live today—boys listen:

Naw, he says, Naw… I don’t reckon it’s worth the price they pay.