I’d see the cowboys
spurs on
lean as barbed wire
stamping the dirt from their boots
as they went through the door
of the Round-up Bar
sometimes leaving their horse
standing in the back of a pick-up truck
standing in that 3 legged hip shot stance
that horses assume
when they are content
daydreaming
waiting for tier rider
their saddle cinched down
onto the wooden slates
surrounding them
I’d see the cowboys
in Mac’s Cafe
the corners of their eyes
permanently crinkled
from squinting out the sun the wind
the Wyoming snow
and from smiling
their faces tan like their saddles
except where the edge of the bream of their cowboy hat
stopped
exposing an incongruous forehead
that gleamed as white
and frail looking
as porcelain
I’d smell the burnt sulphur
from the kitchen matches
that they’d drag on the backside
of their copper riveted
button up Levis
or pop with a thumbnail
bringing that small explosion up to their face
to ignite their hand rolled smoke
I was 12
I became a cowboy
semi
but I rode with the best of them
I treasure that time
and those memories