The Cowboys of Conviction

Crowing on the roof

they were crowing

on the roof

the cowards and cowboys of conviction.

On Saturday nights

they would row to the movies

to parcel out spittle,

the little merchants.

But I am not mad

at the disregard

so apparent in

the shirt-sleeves

of Marshall McKayhan.

We're just on a mission of massive proportions

to tuck all of boredom

safe under the carpets

but

we always forget

and begin to cry.

Always ending the days

in self-reflection,

all

stuffed into a box, and bent

and sent cross-country

for holidays

and the satisfaction

thenceforth obtained.

It is such

a joyous

occasion

of sorts:

I think I'll bake a roast today.

And Hell,

tomorrow,

and the next day,

and the next day.

Baking roasts of joy

and celebration

of tradition

and trinkety-trumpets.

To tie your shoe-strings

carefully,

to not tip over

the snow-banks

and trenches

or the little grooves in tire-tracks

that pull your feet

in

in the mud.

So just sit up on the roof, instead

crowing with the cowbos.

We can make a contest out of it.

A little competition

of who can crow

clearest,

and closer

to the truth at hand

so dribblingly

spittling

out of our heads

and forcefully trickling

out of our hearts.

-clw

-C. Ward