He Comes and Goes, That Rodeo Rider. By John Doyle

Again, it's grits everywhere,

saucepan lid spins

until - its muffled crescendo -

good morning. 

I was told “expect this every morning, John”.

Outside, spooked horses, hind legs kicking,

Gene Clarke wannabe, thrown on his tired and withered ass -

no sign of him anywhere, dust a pointless witness -

dust is a language, sunlight - its parchment, maybe sometimes a song.

There's no sun today, weatherman told me, after a local kid

playing the zither, some commercials, then this -

plates like marooned half-moon effigies,

too many miles on the clock, 

too much liquor, harvest looks bad this year.

He'll return before supper, tire-tracks a treasure map

back to jukeboxes, bourbon, frightened women with tourist cameras

finding out not all cowboys tip their hats like Walter Brennan.

In the barn, he tunes a fiddle - nothing happened right? - he smiles,

guess he’s going back to his roots.

I leave grits and delph, tire-tracks, saddles in the rough.

It's a language he knows, though he has yet to read it -

not as many miles on his clock as he wishes everyone would think

John Doyle became a Mod again in the summer of 2017 to fight off his impending mid-life crisis; whether this has been a success remains to be seen. He has has two collections published to date, A Stirring at Dusk in 2017, and Songs for Boys Called Wendell Gomez in 2018, both on PSKI's Porch. 

He is based in Maynooth, County Kildare, Ireland. All he asks is that you leave your guns at the door and tie up your horses before your enter.