I am the Lonesome Cowboy. Never been kissed, save by blowing sand and dust, always alone, drifting like a thin haze, habitually silent and still, waiting. Waiting for "her", or for what, I perhaps cannot say, but waiting, ever alone. Still.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, hair on my head, hat on my knee, sitting here against a tree, shaded by uncaring leaves, humming a simple tune while waiting for the night, my single friend.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, reminiscing, remembering all my friends throughout the decades. I do believe I had a mother because I must have, though I know little beyond that. Nothing in fact beyond that, being only a supposition in itself. And now, here and into the future? Not a glimmer, my friend. Nothing at all to light my lonesome life.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, startled awake by a sudden sharp noise. I should know by now — only a horse fart. Time for a tune-up then. So it is back to sleep now and up early then to face another day full of emptiness and nothing to do.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, walking alone by night, content to move by candle light, scuffing the earth in my heavy worn boots, giving now and then, on my flute, an occasional toot.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. Any time I suggest to my horse what he might do, he only votes "nay", as if we both indeed had such a vote. That is why I try to stay off by myself, even when I am alone, which is always.
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Me? Yes, I am. And you?
