Jonathan Fletcher
San Antonio, Texas
In a film of leathered men,
I don’t know where I fit.
Not with chaps or straps.
Not atop a saddle, lariat in hand.
Not with Elizabeth Taylor, either,
nightgown white, ready to bed.
Tall, broad, and chiseled,
Rock Hudson could’ve fooled me.
With the girl I dated last year,
I didn’t mean to fool others.
There is no “A” in my buckle.
No A-shaped tag or scar on me.
In a herd of other letters,
I feel sometimes alone, trampled.