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Hanging Up the Spurs, The Tree Topper
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A strong gust of wind sets this fir swaying.
Through high swells, I lose my grip. The rope slips,
and the tree, a fist, slams me in the stomach.
Unable to catch my breath, a red light flashes on
in my head. The only way I know to make a living
is to climb these giants-- no net.
Having more close calls than I care to admit,
it's time to quit, pass the spurs to the burly kid,
who lettered in wrestling and can get a strong hold.
Already, bruises, black roses, are blooming
on my arms and chest. In my knapsack
is a bottle of liniment.
Tonight, I can tell my wife,
she no longer has to worry
if the phone rings before I get home.
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Published in American Land Forum.
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