Cowgirl

In Stetson and calico vest, spandex

and Calvin jeans, she was the best

at the bar. Does Gucci make range boots?

Hers were snakeskin with heels

like railroad spikes. The rest you could

guess: eyes the blue of West Texas yonder,

complexion like hot coffee with cream.

All night I gave her slack but kept

my dally-knot tight, hoping she’d like

the stories I could tell—drunk Indian

twins fighting with icepicks in Cheyenne,

Carolina moonshine, deer breaking open

watermelons out of crazy hunger.

Regular as breath she’d say, “Damn!” or

“Yes!” and stomp a heel through sawdust

to the pine floor. I nearly had the rest

of my life planned out, downing Coors

and forking out for God-knows-whose,

till a dude in a Brooks Brothers suit

moved in, flashing a wad of Andrew

Jacksons like cold cash grew on trees,

and she said to me—she fairly spat it—

“Get lost!” So I did, prostrate all night

in a roadside hay field, watching the sky

sleek as a coal-black stallion’s flank.

Damn if every star wasn’t a spur

burning its wheels into my foolish eyes.

Copyright Credit: R. T. Smith, “Cowgirl” from The Hollow Log Lounge. Copyright © 2003 by R. T. Smith. Used with the permission of the poet and the University of
Illinois Press.

Source: The Hollow Log Lounge (2003)