by: Kris Franczak
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.
Now filled with sand.
So far away.