Cowboy Song

My mother sits alone tonight,
lost on the prairie
in western Minnesota.

She sits in her worn flannel pjs
on her first anniversary without my dad,
alone in the chair where he always sat.

For more than fifty -five years
her husband sat
dreaming of the sky,
predicting the future,
like the guys on the 10 o'clock news.

He was my mother's cowboy
on the watch for everything; anything.

On the watch for the roof to blow off,
the pipes to freeze, the dog to die,
the crops to fail, the tire to blow out.

It could happen, you know.

This ritual is hers now,
after the hairspray and bad fashions
talk about the shootings
and the government gone wrong--
after they are done spouting off,
the real reporters come on
to tell us what they know
about tornados, drought,
and rain.

Before bedtime now
my mother is alone
and listening
to the raspy weather
that will gallop across the fields
to the soothing sounds of the winds whistling,

that never stop blowing
in that godless place.