Thirteenth Summer

A chestnut horse rides better
bare-backed with sun burned
hands giving him his head, mamma
said you couldn’t come in the
house when she was workin’ but
she didn’t say I couldn’t go out.

Beans grow fast, most morninins I
go out and pick ‘em, being careful
that they’re filled out before I pull
‘em from the vine. Sometimes I’m
not sure so I leave ‘em and worry
they’ll grow old and dry before the
next pickin’ and something bad’ll
happen to me for my misjudgment.

I like to watch when you curry your
horse, brushin’ him till his coat shines
like an old copper penny. The barn’s
mostly dark with just a little light
comin’ in the door way at the end and
it smells of sweat and mash – I like
the smell, it’s a comfort like the animals
who don’t expect anything from you.

You’re all dusty from ridin’, a thin layer
of red dust has settled on your clothes
and the hair on your arms. I saw you ride
by at a canter when I was pickin’ the beans.
I watched out of the corner of my eye cuz
I didn’t want you to know I noticed. I was
listenin’ to Bob Dylan on my little radio
tucked down into basket with the beans.

“His clothes are dirty but his hands are clean
And you’re the best thing that he’s ever seen”

2 thoughts on “Thirteenth Summer

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