tell me, cowboy,
just what would happen if
you were to turn and face that
wild animal which chases you
across the desert, and into
your dreams?

when the only sound that
echoes out across those
great sandy dunes is the
jingle jangle of your spurs,
do you ever think of me?

does that wild thing have
something to say to you,
or will it simply knock you
down and press yellowed fangs
against the soft skin of your throat,
and which one scares you more?

tell me, cowboy,
can you tell the difference between
a tender caress and a choke-chain,
or do they both feel the same
to that wild thing in your chest?

because i can, cowboy,
and i’ve got the bloodied knuckles and
split lip to show for it,
having wrestled that wild thing into
a shape which i can hold dear

and i think of you, cowboy,
when i’m laying under that
same desert sky, with nothing to my
name but the whiskey warming my guts,
a threadbare jacket under my head,
and your name, sweet on my lips