Was a Cowboy

The truth was what I thought it was.
(Whenever is it otherwise?) My horse
Was chestnut, sixteen hands. I rode
It on adventures over empty east
Montana plains. I loved the romance
Of that life, a solitary cowboy among
Cattle days, and fires nights. I wrote
A hundred stories of the things I saw
And did, but, now, the horse is just
The handle of an old, discarded broom,
Its head is cardboard, colored red.
It's corralled in the closet of a rarely
Entered upstairs room. I'm not
A cowboy. I'm another guy who
Has an indoor job. My stories read
Like fantasies. That handle's headed
For the trash. The truth, it seems,
Has changed.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 87 times
Written on 2016-04-18 at 01:10

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