I won my
spurs at the tender age of twelve
and knew
right then, telling any who would
listen,
that they would never leave my heels.
I gouge
with my spurs horses that have no
fire in
their eyes or hearts, and I spin them
to signal
my impatience with the chatter of
women and
children, and I drag them scraping
up the legs
of rosewood chairs to show my
disdain for
sophisticated tastes. And sometimes
I squat
down by a guttering campfire under
a dome of
lonesome stars, sink my haunches
down onto
my needle-sharp spurs, and with
tears in my
eyes sing a soft cowboy ballad
about how
the West was really won.
