bunkhouse

The last summer my husband spent

on the family ranch he was eight years old.


An old black and white photograph

shows him tossing a small lariat

in an attempt to snag the back hoof

of a calf.


Smiling at his boyish efforts,

George, the ranch foreman,

stands against the fence.

Wearing a stained Stetson, scuffed boots,

jeans and plaid shirt faded by sun and soap,

he is right out of a John Houston movie.


Except George, like the guys

in the bunkhouse,

is a black man.


Janet Taliaferro



0 views