Cowboy Loves Me, I know He Does...
 
Around a fire on an autumn night
with blackberry wine on my tongue, 
 
I listen to glowing men transform
their every days into tales.
 
We the women laugh,
in all the appropriate places.
 
He stands along the edges, his hand
grips a basket of promises I can't carry.
 
Each eye like the deep hollow lens
of a camera waits to capture my image.
 
Maybe he wants to keep it in his wallet,
a photograph with no exhales.
 
I could draw him nearer to the blaze,
warm him with what he desires.
 
But I don't care to push
a wheelbarrow full of his tears.