United States of Poetry: The American Dream

Sold Out The worst will come tomorrow When we load the saddle horses. We are past turning back; The horses must be sold.
The old man turns away, hurting, As the last cow is loaded. I hunt words to ease his pain But there is nothing to say. He walks away to lean On a top rail of the corral And look across the calving pasture Toward the willow grown creek. I follow, Absently mimicking his walk, And stand a post away. We don't speak of causes or reasons, Don't speak at all; We just stand there Leaning on the weathered poles, While shadows consume the pasture.
Vess Quinlan