by oosh
July 2000 / January 2001
In this pub, the herd drinks beer. Adrift from the cheerful, checkered, tweedy herd, Mournfully expensive in city stripes, Symbolic of mind's hard-won treasury, I hope I look worth stealing. Across the rim of my carefully-angled glass Through the door-pane, I see you dismount; See the purposeful, skin-tight riding breeches Stride across the car-park; Your gaze upon that door's dark eye: You know I am here, waiting. And in that moment, there stampedes through my brain The name of a movie actor - cowboy or cowgirl? Too fast to see, lost in a whinny, Vanished in the dust-cloud of memory. Your stylish, well-cut cowgirl shirt Bears no star upon its breast; And, to compound your lawlessness, You pluck it out from your belt, Tease me with your tender waist. No need to remember your whip: For you I fling the door wide; Head me off, round me up - My smile, your saddle; Your eyes are spurs.