I am the Lonesome Cowboy, roaming empty streets, keeping one eye open for chewing gum wrappers.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, untethered and yet available for lunch dates Tue-Thur during windy weeks in March if my pants are freshly pressed. (Or sometimes August).
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, at home on the streets, sleeping in alleys, alone among stray cats and unwashed rats under darkened skies empty of hope. (Could be why I fart so much.) (Or the other way around.)
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, bereft of horse or saddle, or six-shooter. Only my boots are left, and a battered hat, while I wait for inspiration or a stray $10 bill, whatever you can provide.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, still searching for that silver lining among wind-shredded clouds, between torrents of blowing rain and night-shivers. Searching, searching and waiting, here, all night, with just my small teddy bear, the only friend I've ever had, left.
