Spencer Linford

Son of a Cowboy

I sit criss-cross in cowboy boots

on the pilled polyester of our poverty palace,

My dad unholsters a VHS.

A *clack* and a whir signal a perfect bullseye.

My eyes burned by a lake of blue, 

My ears pierced after, by lions in two.

A harmonious score following a primal roar.

6 shooters, cacti and bad guys,

Suppress my soul’s sobs.

I watch my father and dream of my conquest to come.

Concessions for those in this profession, 

Popcorn from the ceiling, tap from the faucet.

Images of the wild quest broadcast across my face

And the still screen fills with a senora’s breast.

Carnal depictions galvanize hand’s rough from labor to censure my imagination.

Denial ignites curiosity…

…I peek. 

Between cliffs and canyons of calluses,

I sneak a glance and witness the bandito’s taking the woman.

Quick on the draw my father ejects the tape.

His actions show what’s next, 

but for now, he lets me play pretend in his wild west.

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