I am the Lonesome Cowboy, and my pants are tight, so I often leave them behind. After the wedding I had cake, out back, off the basement, near the dumpster, alone.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, continually avoiding each and every pitfall and entrapment that life sets for me alone, plus my sock puppet and sole companion Charlene.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, drifting through life without a care, or a single friend who knows my name. (It's Ferdinand, or at least that's what Mom told me, on her deathbed. She choked while eating grapes.)
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, endlessly kicking balls of lint down the dryer vent of life, all alone except for my 10-gallon hat, my trusty six-shooter, and my cat Puff.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, looking for the raindrop I once had, once kept as a pet, as a boy, carefully folded in my handkerchief, but now it is no longer there, and it was my single best friend, ever.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, and I have hair on my tits. Manly, lonesome hair. My tit hair is long and curly and black. I am not a bleached blond tit-hair sort of guy, not me. And I wouldn't tell you if I was, neither. And don't ask, likewise.
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Me? Searching for that last lit candle so that I can snuff it.
