In my dreams, the desert is never quite so dry.
the cowboy i make love to every Thursday holds
a steady 9 to 5 on Wall Street. His burly hands
can pour whiskey and fiddle on a keyboard
just as nice.
His chaps, always modest like his
devotion to tumbleweed he flocks
to every Thursday in my bed.
my body sanguine to his charm,
the tilt of his hat,
his "yes ma'ams",
the curl of his pronounced upper lip,
and how he drinks his whiskey neat
(he always "cowboys-up" while I have my drink
on the rocks...)
We make love in the red satin sand as a coyote
sings its tune.
Whiskey tongue tastes
my urban kiss. I hold back some as a
tumble weed dances passed,
"its lovely here," I whisper
to the starry sky and the Manhattan
cowboy. "Yes ma'am," he says.