on the screen, a standard cowboy
the quiet type, a man apart
still waters run deep, her mama said
but those depths can drown your heart
aisle seat, popcorn and soda,
hand to mouth, of its own accord
white-hot August, cold dark theater,
the only vacation she could afford
far from these bleak, baked city streets:
windscrubbed plains and starswept nights
no memos to type, no bus to catch—
just room to breathe, villains to fight
of course she knows this is just fiction
frontier life was unforgiving
but in this quiet cowboy’s arms
life would somehow feel worth living
so she surrenders, flaws and all,
and the dream sustains when weekdays crawl
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
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