Gin and tonic on the rocks
atop a Cape Cod hill
overlooking white sail dots
on forever ocean scape.
I drift backward on the waves
to days on my old Boot Hill,
surrounded by empty fields
new subdivision coming soon.
Crouched low behind tall weeds
brambles with stick-on burrs
scratched knobby eleven year old knees,
we stalked bad guys never seen.
Rode horses round that dirt mound
inspired by westerns on console tvs.
Buster browns galloped and dusty laces flew,
head strong imaginations with no reins.
Parched by the high noon sun
horses unhitched and left to roam,
we walked home, hand in hand
to lemonade in aluminum glasses.
And we wondered how old
the Lone Ranger really was.
Photo by Elvis Santana.