The Rustler

by oosh@gmx.net


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
And through the door-pane, I see you dismount;
See the purposeful, skin-tight riding breeches
Stride across the car-park;
Your eyes 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.

Stylish too, with its well-cut collar,
There is no star upon your cowgirl shirt,
And as if to emphasize your lawlessness,
You pluck it out from the tight trouser top,
You tease me with your tender waist.

And now I fling the door open to you,
Head me off, round me up -
No need to remember your whip:
My smile, your saddle;
Your eyes are spurs.
