it's not my first rodeo
you hear
the old woman say with an
emphatic squeal, as she
talks to her
friend while eating an egg salad
sandwich
and keeping her
paper bag of clothes
next to her red
high heels.
you look at her, a sideways
glance
and think about her delicate hands
wrestling the horns
of a steer, or riding
a mad red eyed bull,
lassoing a pony. how many
rodeos has she actually been
a part of, you wonder.
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