Red drives
a wagon and speaks Navajo
his horses shellac several minutes
of deep

yellow tread
like the mustard on his jeans
and the couch he sits on
when fifty-three

green years
later I meet him. He with a mighty
1910 divorce and a fluent limp knocking
right up beside me

he walks like he swims: with his big hands out sculling across my shoulders, "these," he
says, pointing to his long silver spurs, "are used to punch my donkey."