cowboy brings a poem
to the
gun fight
keeps a silver knife
with a chipped wooden
handle tucked under the
pillow on your side
of the bed
there are two places
set at this table,
faded tablecloth with the
circular coffee stains
and rips the cowboy
mended with those
steady hands of his
and in faded blue jeans,
scuffed boots left on
the welcome mat by the door,
he slices potatoes and carrots
for stew
hopes to warm those
darkest and coldest parts of
yourself that the sun still
doesn’t reach all
of the time
and maybe you’ll be
able to let him this time,
trust that he means only
to nourish your body and soul
that he knows
still shines