OUT OF PLACE / by David Jones

A smoking cowboy stands stetson still under a steel wool sky, oblivious to the falling shrapnel of this goodbye morning, lost, no doubt, in his thoughts of wild horses and gritty coffee. 

The only sound he hears is a celestial yawn or maybe a jackrabbit in the scrub. His snakeskin feet chafe against the concrete as he waits for the #9 bus, so out of place. 

Behind my crystal clear iris I spy a thin blue stripe peeking over the top of that stetson, a ribbon of sky that is the promise of better days, the delicious distance between the bottom of a pulled window shade and the sill, a hint of horizontal hope as contrary as a smoking cowboy boarding the cross-town bus.