The Summer My Father Was a Cowboy
was the same summer he met my mother.
He and Uncle Max, home from college,worked the family farm, drove cattle
between fields, passed out by a fireafter trading swigs of Old Grand-Dad
from Max’s flask, the night sky lit uplike a marquee, “Kashmir” playing softly
on their portable radio. It was 1975.On off days, he’d drive to Carbondale
and see Dylan or Elton.