chaps

The summer of my American West
I met a cowboy. He had sprawl,
tanned grooves, scuffed pockets.

He sized me up sidelong,
said he wrangled. I wondered
where his boots had been.

My friend eyed his friend,
so we made ourselves scarce,
heaving up into his pickup.

I felt the tread of his hand
as he drew me by the elbow
through a swinging door,

        wood floor, foot-stomping dust
of loud music. He drew me close
in a wild orbit of banjo, fiddle,

          his ropey arms steering me
Country Swing. He smelled like saddle,
           something of tobacco.

Stampede of night, cascade of
spurs jingling like stars, we kept at it,
shirts untucked, steps trickier.

Pretzel, can opener, dip: he had
moves up his plaid snap sleeves,
wide brim hat hiding surprise

inside his eyes, moons in a jar.
I was springier than my rolling Midwest.
He blew on his mug of beer,

chased down with ice water,
smile like the tug of a lasso,
eyes wind-worn prairie bluebells.

I envied the women, their
cowboy boots, tooled leather leaving
a clue for the search party,

their confident horizon as I
skipped around like tumbleweed.
He held my hand like a gift behind

the small of his back, bodies
like wheels turning, turning. I mastered
the underarm spin, hooted and hollered.

Night and day shook hands at 3 a.m.,
sky full of hootenanny. A lamp was now alight
in my friend’s second-floor window.

All two-step night my cowboy never
removed his hat, but he took it off
to kiss me goodnight, settling it