Ode to Cowboys and Combat

Standard

You can look at a table full of empty
beer mugs full ashtrays dirty dishes
and used napkins
say that either we have a lazy waiter
or that it was a really good fuckin’ party.
I guess I’d be a used or dirty too
except I don’t wait around
to be cleaned up.
I still like cowboy boots and phone calls
at 4:30am that ask
where are you
do you want to come over
do you want me to come there
and I like that I can’t grow out of
black combat boots and a broken heart
just yet and I like that there’s still boys
that read my bravada as an invitation
and not a threat.
You can die a New York death in Berlin,
and that’s how I know I belong here
and not there.

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