Hays Boot Hill Poem by Duane L. Herrmann

They died with their boots on
so the legend goes,
and maybe some of them did.

Others just died
by disease or stupidity,
or accidents of life.

They no longer lie here;
a decision was made
to move them away.

Now houses stand
and streets cut through
the once-burying ground.

When it rained,
my landlord said,
her sons would find little bones:

Finger bones or toe bones.
They could not find them all
when the graves were moved.

Now a marker says
“Boot Hill”
and a bench is placed to sit,

But it’s more a tourist site,
no cemetery,
no memories remain.

The “real” Boot Hill
is in our minds
and legends.