Heather Abner

The Last Cowboy Poem # 52

For months
I’ve thought of nothing
but Stetson hats,
Tennessee whiskey,
and the way your stomach,
so tight with muscle,
makes me want
so much
to touch you.
But this is the last
cowboy poem
I will ever write.
Unless,
while driving my father’s pick-up
faster than is reasonable
through the switchback
curve
on Bull Run Road,
I change my mind.