One Too Many Cowboy Poets
M. Toole | Apr 14, 2016 | Comments 0
April day, 2016
A cowboy poet
in dungless
pointy-toes
had little to say
but he talked like
a real cowpuncher
would talk.
With a twang and
a drooped mustache
that head under
a big ol’ Stetson,
the drugstore way to smell like alfalfa
or an early autumn cutting.
From a Ralph Lauren
catalogue his monogrammed chaps
stood out like raw meat
in a school of sharks,
backed up to spurs from Mars
or some such locale
too far from the corral
to be a serious contender.
And the cows think it’s all
so very funny
even though they are
the leather
that holds it all together.
Dinner Table at the Spiders
If you’re going to
the spider’s house for dinner
do not be put off by
fly stew.
-Kevin Haley
Filed Under: Reflections on Disorder
