volume one IN THE D U D L E Y C L A R K - Ohio Vine Tours

ROY MAKES it.
Afterwards, he makes it into his room.
Then, he makes it into his bed.
And, finally, he makes it into his sleep.
Yippee-i-ay-ti-ay
He snores the snore of the Just, rests the rest of the Pure-of-
Heart, dreams the dreams of the Buckaroo.
Outside the window of his narrow cell, the sky turns blue,
populates with fleecy clouds, white lumps that scud past faster
and faster, alternately shouldering aside the sun—darkening
his room then filling it with light—faster and faster as if film
spooling through a projector that drains out color to black-andwhite
like in the good old days, in the Before Roy Days, back
when campfire shadows told tall tales and men rode white horses
with ten gallon hats on their heads.
Imagine white horses wearing ten gallon hats.
Roy’s feet swing off the bed and fall to the floor.
bang
He prefers sleeping with his boots on.
Intricately-tooled boots. Hand-painted.
He prefers sleeping with his boots on because you never know
when you might get jumped.
He glances out the window at the black-and-white day, then
bends down and ties on the pair of silver spurs he had removed
before bedding down.
He stands.
ching
He is a big man, is Roy. The Navajo call him Wide Shoulders.
The Apache call him Giant Shadow. The Comanche call him
ROY ROGERS IN THE 21ST CENTURY 1