In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Don’t You Forget About Me.”
I’m going to leave my legacy to others.
However, this post reminded me of a cowboy poem I read some years back, and I’ll share of it what I can recall, in prose:
Conky spent his life in the Arizona Strip between Grand Canyon and the Utah border. He and his mount scoured the hills and dells searching for newborn calves, helping with the branding, mending broken fences, doctoring sick cattle, and spending his nights in line shacks reading the labels on canned foods and warming himself by a sheep-herder’s stove until the daylight failed. Life was hard, and it took its toll on Conky. He was fifty-six when someone found him the following spring in a line shack occupying the single chair, the sheep-herder’s stove long since cold.
Someone hauled him from line cabin and buried him near the corral. He was a nobody, a name on the pay roster, a person who collected his due every month, and then disappeared back onto the range. That spring his name was erased from the pay roster, and what was due him was mailed to a next-of-kin, a sister in Boston, his home town.
Everyone forgot about Conky except for a solitary daisy that sprouted from a shallow mound out near the corral the following spring.
<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/dont-you-forget-about-me/”>Don’t You Forget About Me</a>