When that chute opens I wave my hat
but I feel my insides shifting.
I try not to think of anything
but sometimes strange things go through my head
as I’m being thrown around.
I think of my apartment, empty
but for a faucet
that is always gushing rust-red water
as if it had been hit
in the jaw with a wrench.
I recall my father singing Blood
On The Saddle,
and the first girl that I laid down
on sawdust with.
The last cowboy to ride this bull
busted his spinal cord
when his head hit the bull’s.
I spit blood and dust
all the way back to my trailer.
In my next life I’m taking it easy.
I’m moving to Spain, becoming a matador…
Anything is better than a life
where I do nothing
but hang on.
Bob lives in a state that is drifting towards Asia. Bob is inching towards retirement. It is uncertain who will reach their destination first. Adrift, Bob reads Chinese poetry when he isn’t napping. Bob’s work can be found in Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Eclectica, Pedestal Magazine and many other publications on the net.
© 2011, Bob Bradshaw