Green pasture, seven-thirty in the evening:
The sun a glaring, orange orb in the west, ready to tip his green-flash of a hat
and say good-night.
I sit with friends around two burning grills,
meat searing – hamburgers and brats –
Telling stories of the day, the week.
As each beer is lifted from the icy cooler
we come closer to the moment when we’ll tell stories about our lives;
about the many roads that have led us all to be sitting in a pasture at seven-thirty on
a Friday night in early August:
Rockets in Baghdad that just missed their mark;
A rodeo ride on a bucking bronc that led to a broken leg and thoughts of college;
Two years of master’s research that evaporated
under the guidance of an inept professor.
And she sits huddled near the small, psychological fire
No longer willing to talk to me
because she has more roads she needs to travel before she
understands someone like me,
who sits in a pasture at sunset on an August night,
mid-stream in my adventures,
holding out a rough, weathered hand to
the pretty girl who is just beginning her own journey.
No comments:
Post a Comment