Photo by Pablò on Unsplash

Setting the meal of the soul.

If I said I was a cowboy
would you try to rope me in?

Can’t help it if I’m crying tears of dust
the rust of washed-up dreams aching in my joints.

See you standing there
imaginations static in the breeze.
Turbines combing gears grinding slow.
Gentle laugh lifts the soul.
Wonder creases hardest nights…