Where have all the cowboys gone, Paula Cole
Not so much about the setting sun, the meandering
background hum, the prairie lavender-licked
in the glower of the neon sun as it bows
to us over the wild blue horizon,

the yonder is
for all lonesome wanderers

but I do not speak in pentameter,
I do not sink my toes into the Jurassic
slope in the mountain view, only
dance barefoot on the rickety porch
while you lazily pretend to not watch me,

the cowboys
loll about, starved
for sons, starved
for ways of life that
are wayward in nature,

not so much about the March moon,
the milk white walls, the cartons
held between long fingers, the stretch
of your neck tilted backwards,

we mimic each other,
prefer the silence,

oh yonder

we dig up dead Indians
from the backyard, grow
wildflowers in the window boxes,
kiss, walk away, kiss again

the slope is a surrender, a
traitorous footfall, settle
against the scenery,

when I come near,

life is lived in the space
of a single pop song.