when you were little, you used to
tell people you wanted to be a cowboy.
someone always answered back
“you mean cowgirl” but you knew what
you meant. cowgirl never had the same
ring to it.
when you were little, you rode horses
& got scolded for being too impatient.
you were too short to reach
the water pump & always got some on
your boots.
when you were little, you would
sit in the back of your grampa’s truck
& listen to him leave voicemails
on your dad’s flip phone that
always started with “hey, cowboy…”
your father & his father spent years
not talking. the town wasn’t big enough
for the both of them. that town became
two, then three, then a whole state of empty.
you wore your cowboy boots to school
freshman year even though
they were two sizes too big & you
hated the cut of jeans you had.
you wore your father’s black leather
cowboy hat (the one that weighs a pound
& smells like diesel) when no one was
home & pretended to lasso maleness.
your grampa was a racecar driver & a carney.
he was short as you with fat hands & he
loved his eggs over easy.
you imagine having a son & calling him
“cowboy” over the phone even though
you never want children & never will.
cowboy is more a metaphor than a being
to you. someone chivalrous & handsome
who kisses their partner on the cheek
every morning & can lift bales by their twine
is a cowboy. an outlaw that plays cards
with anyone
& knows the importance of chickens.
a cowboy is all the men you were
afraid of when you were little
because you knew you wanted to grow
up to be like them & you knew
kids like you weren’t supposed to
want to grow up to be cowboys.
now you are grown up, or maybe
not so much
grown up but rather, not little anymore
& maybe you’re a cowboy. maybe
you should ask for a second opinion.
you can’t afford the boots or hat
& you haven’t ridden a horse in 13 years.
you wear all black every chance you get.
a johnny cash type cowboy, maybe. you try
to use your cowboy manners &
your friend’s parents always say
you’re a polite kid.
when you were in high school, your
english teacher said if she ever has a son,
she’d want him to be just like you
& you went home
& cried your cowboy tears.
now you are grown up, or maybe
not so much
grown up but rather lonely & trying
to make sense of things. maybe being
a cowboy is scarier than you thought
it would be.
maybe you always knew.
maybe you want someone to call you
on the phone & say “hey cowboy” &
really mean it.
maybe you should ask for a second opinion.