He raises both hands
and tips back his hat –
a round, sweat-stained halo
that circles his head –
and his elbows thus raised
look like angel wings,
although of the sharp
and pointy shape.
He busts out his chest
‘til his buttons, they snap
open, revealing
the red underwear
favored by cowboys
at home on the range.
Then he flings his leg over
the pommel and leaps
off like a trout
with an eye on the fly,
lands hard on his heels,
his spurs all a-jingle,
and walks in a cloud
of dust raised from his chaps,
while his eyes roam the ridge
where the buffalo roam.
Now his horse can be hateful,
and given to biting
and bucking him off
on no provocation.
But he loves her and gives her
sugar and apples
he begs and he barters
for with the cook,
who seldom would speak
a discouraging word.
Cookie never lets on
he’s happy to help him –
for what good is a cowboy
without a good horse?

© by Leslie Hodge.
Used here with the author’s permission.