I’m looking for a gay cowboy.

I was married to a straight-up ******* for 30 years,
so now I’m looking for a gay cowboy.
One who wears spurs on his boots and
chaps on top of his jeans
with flannel shirts that still have sleeves so
he can slip them through
the arms of a brown wool vest.

I want a gay cowboy who smells of air-dried laundry,
who will compliment my color-coordinated outfits,
clean the lipstick from my teeth,
tease my hair into place,
laugh at my jokes, but
tell me kindly when my jokes fall flat, then
pat my shoulder to let me know it will be okay.

I want a gay cowboy with
a well-trimmed beard and
silvery hair that he can pull into
a pony-tail beneath his cowboy hat.

I want a gay cowboy with
a body that gives evidence that
he’s done the hard work of life,
but I don’t care about six packs unless
they’re in a cooler on the beach.

I don’t care about the color of his eyes or
how tall he is or
if he can use a grill or
vacuums or
empties the dishwasher or
sews cute little throw pillows for the benches in the barn.

In fact, as long as he enjoys clever wordplay,
porch swings,
chickens in the backyard
and people wandering in and out of the house day and night,
he doesn’t even have to be gay.