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A novel in verse … and the writing thereof
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Cowboy Boots

When I finally took Cory home one weekend

that strange, sour autumn,

he wore his jeans and

his cowboy boots.

“They might as well know the worst

     right off,” he said.

“Gonna serenade them on the guitar?”

“I might. I might. If I get really pumped,

     I may do rope tricks in the yard.”

I covered my ears and shuddered.

“And to think my mother’s expecting a war hero

     in a uniform.”

“Then she’ll be disappointed. Wait.

     What did you say? What did you tell them?”

“Only the truth.”

“Which truth?”

“Oh, you know. What a great guy you are and

     how brave, and everything.”

Facing his uncompromising stare, I realized

               I was afraid.

“How brave I am? or

     how brave I was on one

               particular day?”

“Both,” I said.

“Linda. What did you tell them?”

“Just the facts, Cory, nothing more. I just

     told them the story, that’s all.”

He didn’t cover his eyes; he just looked away,

     shaking his head.

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