When the cowboys are done for the day-through with their horses

And tobacco-they play

On words and irony

Where have they gone?

When you need the talk that carries the clouds

And my clouds are grey without the hype

Of all the bandits they've captured and what they've done for the day

And I feel disorganized,

I feel dumb and away,

Is that madness? To be wrong and miss the feeling?

To be right and put it aside like the plastic guns they carry

Full of destruction-

But full of resolution

And I have not written with such a structure as when I loved the cowboys

Of late night desparations

But you can't ask for their pennies-they're broke

And covered in all the smoke you've prided yourself on avoiding

And I feel dumb!

Oh, the way I feel!

Because it's not like the movies,

Not like the west,

And I could keep pouring the words from my chest-

And tangled in the strings of the most bound kites-

In the most twisted of branches

On the most glorious of nights! Oh!

And I wonder if the cowboys of the world will come back

And take their time

To settle my confusions in likewise and in rhyme?

And I could wait for the brushing by of saddles on the way out

But the dust cannot carry the words of our mouths.

And maybe we're the same,

Maybe we're not

But my hearts become strangled on the most risking thoughts-

And I can't stay away from those cowboys...

Like mama told me so.

So I'll watch in vain-

And admiration.

And in wonder,

Through the ice on my window.

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