SUNDAY MORNING COWBOY

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads--d'Verse poets Pub 

He moseys down the sidewalk
past the little A-frame church
where parents of long-haired girls
in granny skirts
and fidgety little boys
resigned to being on their best
behavior for as long as they can stand it
(which is about an hour,  tops)
are herding their charges inside.

Cowboy eases his lanky old frame 
 past the church
and enters the convenience store
on the corner. 

On the return trip he totes a 12-pack
under one arm, 
and as he passes the little meeting house again,
the sound of hymns being sung 
with gusto,
if not exactly on key,
wafts into the street.

To casual observers,
Sunday Morning Cowboy
takes no special note of any of it. 

But they'd be wrong. 

When he gets home 
and pops open
that first Sunday morning beer,
chugs about half of it
 in one swallow,
and burps lustily...

he pauses 
and murmurs: 
Heavenly Father,
we thank thee for these gifts.