Cowboys

One sits alone at a table, casual, slouched in a chair with his hand on a bourbon. He gets up from time to time and takes a woman on the dance floor. They dance, simple steps, he sits back down when he's done, same as before. Hardly moves, hardly breathes, just watches, watches everyone else, cool as cool.

Another hangs on my wall. In some pictures, aviators and a puffy vest. A book, a beard, another drink in hand. The beginnings of a problem. Blood he'd pass down to me.

Yet another from my childhood, those formative years. Music, friends, creating together, maybe the most creative I'll ever be. Something we had, not just had but created, together. Something that maybe I let slip away.

This one's a gunslinger. Another beard I'll want, a brim covering my eyeline. Some past he can't quite get away from, and maybe he doesn't want to get away from it. Maybe it suits him just fine. Maybe he needs to accept that, pick up, move on, stay exactly how he is. Quick on the draw, quick for blood, passing that blood along.

Another is dead. Another wanted me, wanted him, to do the same. And for a while it even happened. For a long while. But he's dead. We all wised up. Eventually.

There's no more frontier, not really. There's only different ways to see what's there. It's beautiful in a way, tragic in another. There are adventures we could have, sure, but not like there used to be. Things used to be cleaner, easier. Now it's different, it's muddled, the adventures are harder to find. Tucked away, under a rock, across the ocean, in the middle of a place we'll never get to. In the middle of a place we want to find. But maybe we're scared. Of what we'll find when we get there. Of which one we'll turn out to be. If it will be up to us at all.

Cool as cool, everybody. Cool as cool.