Caren Krutsinger Poet Prose Poetry

I Am No Cowboy

How many head do you have?
He turns his weathered face toward me. You buy’n?
His hazel eyes are dancing; I am no cowboy.
I'm in the throes of boot stomping country.
Saturday nights are for dancing
And you better be sleeping in church on Sunday.

I take a big whiff of healthy country air.
We're standing next to a pasture full of bluebells.
There are clumps of succulents on either side of this old barn.
She needs paint everywhere except for her brand-new window.
Two antique milk jugs are down here, with yellow and purple petunias.
The missus, he explains noticing my noticing.

A black crow lights on a fence post about twenty feet away.
The most annoying croaking caw sound.
He is not happy you’re here, the old timer tells me. I grin.
There is one lone renegade sunflower to the left of the shed.
I wonder about that, but do not ask.
Want to see the horses or the cows? He asks.
I want to see both, I say.
We’ll start with the horses then.
The cows are mucking around in the mud; you’ll have to put on waders.
I try to look pleased.

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