Of course, you’ve already seen
how he leans back, one heel resting against
an adobe wall, the other jammed deep in the dirt.
His long shadow filters across the wall.
A slight puff of wind riffles
through his hair. His head bends down.
He shades his mouth with his hand,
and lights up, sucking.
He’s an irresistible man.
First, his boots,
pointed toes, tucked heels,
tugged off, one after the other.
You set them in the dry grass as he watches
a trail of renegade cows disappear in the haze.
And his white hat. It lifts off easily,
fits atop a bleached fence post.
Then there’s his red cowboy shirt.
He picks his pack from the pocket;
simple snaps pop quick
down the chest, along the wrists;
then hangs slack over a rail. The leather chaps
unfasten with buckles on each hip,
inside each thigh, behind both knees; dust
kicks up as they drop to the dirt. One pull
undoes the gigantic oval belt buckle;
the wide brown hide slaps
through all six loops. Thick denim,
four buttons undone, slides off
slow and tight as snake skin.
At last, your fingers touch paper-smooth skin.
Slide your hands down his long, lean legs; slip
your thumbs into his socks, and
roll them off. Heavy with sweat,
they drop. Dust rises, encircles his body,
then wastes away in the wind.
The simplicity of cowboy underwear
in late twentieth century
America is beautiful
for spacious skies. Exploration
is unnecessary. Everything is obvious.
Like a toss of a lariat, his boxers
are flung to the clouds.
Welcome to Marlboro Country.
Have you noticed
how mellow it is out here in the desert?
Nothing but a cow chewing
cud, eyes half closed,
and a stallion, far off, snorting.
So alarmingly quiet, you can hear the cowboy
inhale, exhale, and inhale again; tiny
blue sparks welding secretly
into his lungs.
His dry hack
rumbles along the empty dunes.
He supports himself against the wall,
presses his butt against it, smoldering.
He fingers his pack
with calloused hands, stained
yellow and shaking; lays one
on the edge of his lower lip,
and lets it set there. He wants
to know, would you like one?
Smoke drifts from his nostrils.
He never smiles. Not once. Not even
as smoke trails in lazy circles
around your face. He’s looking
at a band of longhorns
bedding down in the dusk.
He takes your hand, runs your fingers
up and down his papery chest, pushes
your thumb into his packaged skin
just below the sternum.
A quick flick
and his chest opens like a carton.
He stands back coolly, tacked
to the wall.
His lungs hang heavy there,
a testiment to the beauty of country life.
Slowly, his hands guide yours to
the etched, smoky sculptures; explains
how the medium of thick breath
modeled these works of art, each one
unique with patterns of blackened spots,
a tribute to tobacco,
a grainy documentary mirage. |
