I went to an open mic night in a western town;
A blackboard sign read “Cowboy poetry, open to all.”
I was neither a cowboy or a poet, but figured all included me
so in I went.

40 fans complimented broken AC nicely,
and a woman who has seen 3 times the amount of sunrises as me
handed me a mixed drink
as a handlebar mustache-d man stepped up to the mic.

Some punk crept in the back door.
Buckled boots rose to their knees,
and half a can of spray held their hair in a way
birds would be scared to land there.

Suddenly my mixed drink felt like popcorn and
I could almost see a tumbleweed roll by,
as the Wild West duel tune played in my brain.

As the boots-wearing wrangler took the mic,
speaking about some horse, or something,
I watched as my sinister sister put down their phone to listen,
all 18 earrings jingling as they turned their head towards him.  

As the next poet took the stage I kept my eyes trained on
Ol’ Howdy’s hand, making sure the poem titled
”gender: my nonbinary manifesto” didn’t elicit
any gunslinging fast-ones.

But he just kicked back and listened as eyeliner
delivered a powerful and albeit, relatable poem about
the gifted kid to goth dropout pipeline.

The night ended and I was too nervous to
share my own writing and so I recycled my popcorn bucket
and had a foot out the door as I heard a deep southern voice speak—
maybe my entertainment wasn’t yet finished.

“I have never heard something quite like that.”
I unashamedly tuned into their conversation—
“you have a real gift for writing, young— ”
“Friend.”

”Thank you, I could really feel
how much your horse meant to you.
Secretariat thanks you for sharing”

I left the shop that day,
passed the since rained clean outdoor chalkboard
and wondered why I had expected a showdown.

Poetry brings us together,
cowboy hat and fishnet leggings,
and all who love to write.