Mamma's don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys

I take that old song to heart.
What am I if not alone on a dusty trail?
Breathing in heaves and choking on the wagon wheels woes ahead.
This useless, but priceless sway in my stride
can only ever arrive too late or too early,
and stays right up until it's needed.

How easy it would be to hang a bulb upon my mold
and frighten or, better yet, befriend the Eddie Munster's of the world.

I guess I don't care too much of the vices of violence,
being angry a moment too long,
craving the wants or the cants that save face in men.

I've watched my kin tear and grasp for the final stand,
only to lose or forfeit to the other.
They've claimed ignorance and bled an oozing guilt,
fortifying a weep with a low hanging brow.
Fusing palm to cheek,
all for that which never was.

Sometimes on my own, too frequent odd holidays, I'll rush through the worlds resources,
water fills my belly and tobacco dances over my taste buds,
a ballerinas big toe across a pond of lily pads.
The smoke echoes as waves dance across the clear-blue depth
and all is well.

And then, the slight ting of drone pilots, at home, on their own days of rest,
circling the outer most part of me,
waiting for orders to arrive while squinting down the scope.

The wait time is to be determined and lengthy,
but I am the only patron, and this place is empty.

I guess I'm every little boy clinging to comfort in a Wolf-Blitzed Battleground.

Confront me with tears and I will weep with you.
Call at me with broken rage, falling sideways toward my porch and hailing hard on my front door and I will consume you.
Grace me with a stare, if just to make me believe for a moment that what I once knew to be was- if only once,
and in what once was, what can and cannot be.

I am the parent of these four walls,
and a child to all who enter.
A kamikaze Cowboy, drenched in sweat
awaiting the arrival of the clearing.