Cyber Urban Cowboy

 
He’s not John Travolta
and I am not Debra Winger
and we don’t fall in love
riding a mechanical bull
in a saloon as Mickey Gilly
sings lookin’ for Love
in all the wrong places.

He’s not Tom Hanks
and I am not Meg Ryan
searching for soul mates
in Seattle and New York City.
Nor are we Robert Redford
and Jane Fonda widowed
and seeking companionship.

He is just an Arizona cowboy poet
and I am a Montana girl who publishes
a poem about cows on the open
Arizona range where I now live.
He leaves a note in the comments
section with his email address.

I email him and get no response
and I google his name looking
for an obit or other tragic news,
and all I see is a photo of a smiling
cowboy in a black hat and shirt
in his bio on Poets & Writers.

I imagine him scribbling poems
around a campfire as he herds
cows up in the mountains,
where there are no cell towers
or Wi-Fi, and when he gets home
he will find my emails piled up
like presents under a tree
and read them over supper
of venison stew and cornbread biscuits.