Cowboy, I’ve always loved you.
From your image on my childhood bed sheets,
playing your guitar for the Indian woman and her baby,
I saw your sensitive side.
When we went out west on a month long family trip,
I saw you everywhere.
In the shuffle of old leather boots and the warmth of denim.
I bought a cowboy hat so I could be closer to you.
And now I’m grown, and you’re still here,
or there in my imagination.
You ride up to my office door,
lasso a man on a Segway and you call to me.
After all these years, you’ve not changed one bit.
I reach for your stubbled face and try to wipe the prairie dirt off your cheek,
but only leave a smear.
Your green eyes lock onto me and you are suddenly much more real than my bed sheets.
Pulling me close my skin collides with your long sleeves,
your too-warm-for-this-August-heat outfit,
and you remind me why it’s important to daydream.
I rip a slit in my pencil skirt and you hoist me onto your horse and we’re off.
I wonder when you’ll play your guitar for me,
and when I’ll ever be back again.