It is a hot Sunday morning.
My restless eyes move around the chapel
And focus on the old man
Who sits across the aisle
In a homemade wheelchair.
I wonder what he thinks and feels
As he blinks tired eyes
Against the sun's glare.
Is he intent on the pounding preacher?
Or is he listening to a whispering voice
Warning him that life ends soon?
Perhaps sensing my stare, he turns
And I am allowed the depths of old eyes.
Within them I share his memory
Of a fierce young cowboy
Who rides through the town
On a dusty white horse
Covered with chipped blue paint.
I see him singing to a metallic song
as they gallop into the glitter of yesterday.
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