As far as a Southern Legitimacy Statement, I’m not sure how to begin. I’m a red-legged Jayhawker abolitionist Kansan. As a descendent (in Spirit) of John Brown, I never thought of myself as Northern or Southern, but in the In-Between. I’m definitely south of a lot, Canada for example, but I’m probably most assuredly much farther north than y’all. I grew up in Eskridge, Kansas, population 650, now probably more like 400. My high school stood literally in the middle of cattle pastures with a view of the Flint Hills all the way to the horizon. My grandfather was born in Appalachian Kentucky, but converted to Kansan to marry my grandmother. If not of that legitimizes me enough, I suppose we’ll have to shake hands and part ways.
Rodeo
the Labor Day Rodeo is the only thing
keeping this small cow town running
the lone landmark in the county
except maybe for the corner outside the IGA
where the Hall boy got into it
with two cowboys from out of town that time
or Old Man Waugh’s pickup, rusting away
in the very spot it broke down twenty years ago
usually just a quiet intersection
of two lonely state highways
mostly a town of closed gas stations
and boarded-up shopfronts
a place of trailer homes and doublewides
that just sort of pops up on the otherwise empty prairie
the highest point has to be the jagged tin roofs
of the grain elevator at Pine and First
most of the houses are now slowly returning
to the cracked earth of dry summers
but one day a year
it turns into a rowdy tourist destination
for the lonely and nostalgic
the air fills with the smells of manure and barbecue
and the PA announcer’s electric voice
you can’t walk two feet down Main Street
without bumping into a bull rider
rodeo clowns who tend to stick together
trading around bottles of whiskey
the one tavern that’s only ever open on Saturdays, sometimes,
suddenly becomes the most happening spot in the state
the sawdust of the floor starts soaking up more tobacco juice,
beer, and blood than usual,
the jukebox that’s usually quiet
plays Clint Black songs nonstop,
and the daughters of the town
get hidden away for the long weekend
by the end of it, all the garbage cans in town
are full of empty Coors Lite bottles
the school playground where the trailers had been parked
empties with only deep tire marks left behind
the usual silence returns along with the songbirds
and the town eases back into slumber
How To Rope a Cow
lariat, deep with the smell of old straw,
sweat, and rawhide
threads through the stiff hondo
loop is built
as coils wind in the rough hand
nature waits anxiously
in the space between
spoke and tip
thumb forward
palm up
roll the wrist
smooth rhythm and rotation
look straight into the cow
between the horns
with a small prayer
under your breath
throw
catch the right horn then left
pull the slack feel
the taut tension
of an animal caught
a long ancient cycle
complete
The Last Friday Night
my last high school football game
played right after a winter storm
each blade of grass heavy with a clear
thick coat of jagged ice
by the end our young hands were raw
and numb after a long night of galloping
suicidally towards each other
I think that’s how Wright put it
that was the last Friday night I had to spend
under the watchful eyes of anxious
townsfolk all praying for bragging rights
to keep themselves warm through the dark year
I believe we won that game, but I can’t be sure now thirty-some-odd
years later, nursing early onset arthritis and possibly CTE
