Cowboy Dreams

Last night I found a tumbleweed rolling in the hallway of my mind, whispering forgotten tales of spaghetti westerns and cowboys who never wore boots.

Remember the man who wrestled with the moon? He claimed it was made of cheddar cheese: “That’s where the good people dine,” he would crow.

As I write, the old cowboy at the café scribbles notes on napkins, “Outlaws always leave town with a smile... and a lemon meringue pie.”

Ah, sweet nostalgia. Time does love a good fashioned joke after all—visiting every day but never leaving a tip. Please, savor the irony!

When the stars aligned last Tuesday, my hair turned into a rodeo and my thoughts galloped away on a rusty mustang. Has anyone seen them?

Old market days filled with cowboy boot sales now pass like whispers. Yet, I must ask—what happened to cowgirls who dream? Do they read Kafka as companions?

And they all rode into the sunset, or just to the nearest Starbucks, fabricating caffeine-fueled fables embroidered on the fabric of their exhausted minds.