I consider myself blessed that a number of my poems have been published in various National magazines. But, after this poem was included in an issue of American Cowboy, I got a request from one of their subscribers. She wanted permission to copy it and hang it on the wall in her office. Of course, I told her okay. Don't know if she ever did, but you know what they say, "it's the thought that counts." (That's not really true, I think it was made up by people who only want to think about things and never take action, but that's a story for another time.)
I’ll never be what you might call
a poet of the West.
I’m just another workin’ stiff
who tries to do his best.
I’m more a cow, than cowboy,
like many now a days.
We’re herded off to work and back,
but long for simpler ways.
The range I ride is concrete hard;
my work is just routine
but in my little cubicle
my mind is free to dream.
I see sunrise on the prairie.
The grass is moist with dew.
The air has just a hint of chill
as I grab a cup of brew.
Bacon sizzles on the campfire.
Biscuits cooked up golden brown.
When the cook says, “Come and get it,"
all us cowboys gather round.
I can almost smell the leather
as I saddle up my mare.
I can see the cattle movin.
I can hear the trail boss swear,
“Come on boys, time to get to work,
we’re burning daylight here.”
And I take off a chasin’
some old ornery longhorn steer.
I can feel my horse beneath me
as my loop swings in the air.
My pony’s hot breath blowin’
‘cross my face and through my hair.
When suddenly, I’m caught up short
by a ringing telephone
that brings me back to here and now
where my life is not my own.
But when I need escape,
I head past cactus, through the streams,
to where a cowboy, rough and ready,
is a-ridin’ in my dreams.