Contributor: Eddie Gordon Walsh

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You can have my Stetson,
you can have my boots
you can have my horse
you can have her stable, her shoes
you can have my coat
that brought me through many a lonely rain
you can have the miles of barbed wire
that cut my hands, left memories of blood, pain.

I’m putting my saddle up on the fence.
I’ve given this world one final ride
I’ve given the seasons a year to turn,
to show me something better
but now
now. . .

there’s a little house
with a little woman
bent over a little stove
her little voice
calling me inside.


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