who's your daddy?

what's wrong, Tex?

i asked my cowboy buddy

as he

sat on the front porch twirling his

rope.

i'm tired, he said,

squinting in that cowboy

way he did

even when there was no sun.

i'm tired of rounding

up cattle,

riding the trail, eating beans

over a campfire

and wearing these stupid

chaps on my legs.

my toes hurt from these pointy boots.

well then, why don't you quit

and do something else

with your life?

get an office job.

i can't, he says,

slapping his dusty

hat against his leg, a piece

of straw

dangling from his parched

lips.

everyone knows me as a cowboy.

that's who i am.

plus the rodeo is coming next

week and my name

is on a poster.

i don't know if i can handle

another broken

arm or leg, but what choice

do i have?

thanks to my daddy,

i'm a cowboy until the end.