Everything eventually comes to an end Upon stage actors curtsy and take a bow The show is over, down with the lights Away with the chickens, away with the cow Good night stars and good night moon The end
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.
I wrote this in a hurry to share in a reading group one night while working on my Master's in Fine Arts at Southern New Hampshire University.