Padilla unloads mangy herd of Mexican <br />cattle in the field. <br />Meaner, horns long and sharp <br />for bloody battle, lean from a diet <br />of prairie weed, looking more <br />like cattle did years ago <br />on the plains <br />than cattle now– <br />sluggish, pampered globs <br />stalled year round <br />for State Fair Judges to admire, <br />stall-salon dolls, hooves manicured <br />and polished, hide-hair blow-dried, lips <br />and lashes waxed. <br />I ride down the dirt road <br />on Sunshine (my bay mare) <br />and she smarts <br />away from their disdainful glare– <br />come in, try to lasso us, <br />try to comb our hair. <br />I admire my ancestors, llano vaqueros, <br />who flicked a home-made cigarette in dust, <br />spit in scuffed gloves, grabbed one <br />by the horns, wrestled it down, <br />branded it, with the same pleasure <br />they enjoyed in a bunk-house brawl.<br /><br />Jimmy Santiago Baca<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/llano-vaqueros/
