9.17

That same old lariat is pooled around the toes of his working boots. He hasn't touched it in years, and it's cracking into dust. There's no new mud in the tread, no new tears in his shirt, no new scars on his hands. The old work has died and took with it his self, and if you don't think that's sad, you're looking in the wrong place. He falls asleep, there on the edge of the bed, his boots just fresh kicked off, his hand trailing, gripping the coils below as though for the first time, as though he can use it to lasso the better times to bring them back.