Road Warrior

A dusty old cowboy boot lies on the highway.
Used to be a man who insisted things be done his way

Now filled with sand, something dead

Lying on the side of the freeway.

Smoky city air.

Cars slowly move past him.

People having nothing to do but stare

Ahead, at cars.

A device made for moving does not move

Instead, sits, as a chair would

Or a grave.

He wants to move.

He is out of his element.

The frontier is far away.

If he could think, he would

About how far away the old frontier is.

A road warrior until death. 

But with no pistol, 

No trusty steed. 

He has long since starved to death.

So he just sits there.

On the side of the highway. 

He just sits there.

Out of his element.

Something dead, 

Now filled with sand. 

The frontier. 

So far away.