Cowboy Boots

     Nothing came of their union
     with the red dirt,

     just as nothing came
     of the interstate’s promises.

     Sometimes a car blazed
     westward in the night,
     a single headlight
     scanning the desert

     for horses.

     Night horses
     like horizontal meteors.

     From memory and story.

     Sometimes the driver longed for sky
     that barely changed
     with the seasons.

     Sometimes she worried that beneath
     her fine embroidery,

     she, like her boots,

     was made of
     someone else’s skin.


Glen Armstrong holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and teaches writing at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan. He edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters and has three recent chapbooks: Set List (Bitchin Kitsch), In Stone, and The Most Awkward Silence of All (both Cruel Garters Press.) His work has appeared in SOFTBLOW, Conduit, and Otoliths.
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