He yanked the child along,
six years old? dressed like him—
ebony snakeskin boots
scuttling through blaring cabs;
black bolos fluttering;
hats bobbing, black rolled brims.
Were they running late for a wake?
The father scowled. His nose
was gnarled, a boxer’s;
blond ponytail fraying, slicked.
The boy tried to keep pace—
skittered along on scuffed toes,
lurched off a curb. The man
swore, quickening his stride.
Oh not to be left behind
when all you clutch is one hand!
Was the boy saddlebag freight
flung on for aching rides?
At the light, he glanced towards me.
Brown colt-eyes, wary, full.
Let him be dashing from shifts
at the fair’s Wild West tent.
Let me not find him years on
tossed, by broken bulls.
Canada's Best Magazine | 18 March 2010 | Sign up for our E-Newsletter
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OCTOBER 2008
Letters: October/November 2008
On Marion Botsford’s post-colonial travel writing, the Trans-Canada highway, and more.
Plus, one reader calls us “hip” and “fancy.”
Letters: October/November 2008
On Marion Botsford’s post-colonial travel writing, the Trans-Canada highway, and more.
Plus, one reader calls us “hip” and “fancy.”