There’s only one thing worse than getting older, and that’s the alternative. But for some reason, even though we know it’s inevitable, getting older catches us all by surprise. This page is an outlier, nothing to do with food, or art, or anything. But I guess it fits within the themes of seeing, and connecting. My Cowboy Toes was accepted for a literary journal that disappeared before the poem got published, so I thought why not publish it here? This is just for fun. Hope you enjoy.
And just for the record, I still own and wear a pear of leopard-skin-style stilettos. The poem is, of course, all hyperbole ๐๐
My Cowboy Toes
Have (bone) spurs
that jingle and jangle
and refuse to bend,
when I walk arthritically along.
Swollen (with pride!)
these pioneers drive
the ageing process
like cattle
across my forefoot, my midfoot,
singing sad cowboy songs
about rhinestones, prairies
and the way it used to be
in stilettoes.
Riding shotgun,
these Clint Eastwoods
are high plains drifters
of my lower extremities,
taking hell from no one,
least of all the ladies
at Hollywood Nails
who know not to mess
with my aching feet.
Too tough for a pedicure,
too roughshod for Italian heels,
a feminine sandal, in fact,
dagnabbit!
my cowboy toes are
boot-wearing dudes
who favour thongs and lassos,
medicinal whiskey,
and a good stirrup.
Thereโs no gain
without wrangling pain.
These cowboys of mine
are set for the good ride,
rollinโ their own podiatrists,
chewinโ up x-rays โnโ spittinโ โem,
totinโ bunions like guns,
and taking their ibuprofen beans
extra black.
ยฉelsp2024
If you’re interested, you can find some of my other poetry here. And if you want a (kinda) cowboy recipe, how about a piece of steak?
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