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, including Set List (Bitchin Kitsch, 2015). His work has appeared in SOFTBLOW, Conduit, and Otoliths.

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