Corral Outlook
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…