Betimes I Wonder

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, and betimes I wonder if I even amount to more than a secret whisper.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, and now it is night. Quiet night, chilly night, enveloping night, still night, endless night, my native habitat.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, heavy on the one side, light on the other, doing my nighttime shuffle, such as I do, shuffling to one side and then to the other. And back again. It helps. I think. I hope.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, quietly munching lunch alone with a single cactus plant, whose thoughts are not being shared with me this day. No matter, I suppose, since I have all too few of my own to share back.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, silent by night, quiet by day, seldom seen, never noticed, always disregarded out of hand, insubstantial, ineffective, insignificant, ineffable.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, sitting quietly, waiting. For? Ever.

 

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Me? Lonesome? I wonder. I wonder...