All fans of wild, western lore
harness your ears to a rustic story
of a life that hinged on an outhouse door
at the feet of our beloved Rockies.
Many winters or tree rings ago
a hunting guide saddled ‘n rode
through autumn leaves, before the snow
pondering life in his harsh abode.
Suddenly wind worms twisted his horse’s ear,
Shakin’ the head of his steady mount,
‘til lost nerves caused his ride to rear
and buck like a bronc for a full 8 count.
White knuckled beyond what’s fun
the cowboy lost hold of horse ‘n’ rein.
He crashed beneath a writhing ton
and tipped his hat to the headlong pain.
His work hardened leather skin,
and strength of body ‘n mind
were no match, for the hurtin’ put on him
was the disablin ‘n’ deadly kind.
His fall was broken by his neck
which struck a stump on the ground,
leaving him a mangled wreck;
in rotting leaves he was found.
Fellow wranglers rushed to help the guide,
and they sensed broken bones
knifing against his spinal cord;
a careless move would stir up his dying groans.
The frost in the fall air
was lifelessly cold for them that day.
With razors at his neck, they were aware
to rope caution and pause to pray.
Now in his trade and present state
stillness was key to his success.
To move him carefully, like eggs in a crate,
was a challenge for the rest.
Nearby stood an outdoor loo
made of wood, weathered like his skin.
Sittin’ agape like a lip with no chew,
waitin’ for a placement within.
The door was taken from this holy place
and they slid it underneath,
then strapped him down, from boots to face,
with duct tape and a plug of cowboy belief.
On a topless coffin they packed him out
under the sky of a cataract sun.
Passing mountain tops he looked about
Sayin’ goodbye to the hills, his tears on the run.
In town the sawbones checked ‘n’ said,
“He can’t be fixed here, by us.
but that outhouse door is a damn fine bed
to fly him further from his crisis”
He flew through the clouds he’d rode under,
taped to an old outhouse door
and he landed far away, amidst wonder
about the cowboy duct taped to the hospital floor.
He survived the fall, the pack and flight.
And after takin’ the shards from his spine
they said his livin\' wouldn’t be a delight;
but wounds can mend in time.
He returned to the game ‘n’ hooded hills
and still hunts where critters roam.
And each day after dancing with nature’s thrills
he closes the outhouse door on his mountain home.