| Modeled After Me Beauty known round the world , I seldom see her anymore. The fashion model"s time is booked and her profile fills the stores. We used to be friends and lovers, but all that has changd now. The only time I see her anymore is in designer dresses or a towel. Her gowns are extravagant, the swimsuits barely there. Nails done to perfection and hours to do her hair. Oh yes we're still friends and lovers, at least I think we are. The few times I see her are on billboards from afar. She once wanted children, if she were here that could happen. Instead of the galla balls, reporters, and me at whom they're laughing. I don't fit the stereotype, and I'm sure I never will. I work hard and do my best, but her agents pay the bills. Someday a younger sweeter thing will show and take her place. Until then I'll just read magazines with her pictured all in lace. The day may come when she will tire and I welcome her home. Probably not tomorrow unless she flies in from Rome. Oh well outa the jeans and into cleaner ones, by the tux I've never worn. Or the shiny shoes on the floor by the boots one strap dangles torn. My chit kickers she used to say in the days we danced the sawdust floor. Her in a cowgirl hat and name on her belt, now all gone out the door. Dallas, Ft Worth, Houston, and San Antone we made the circuit. Dancing, parties, allnight gigs, she never minded a bit. The last time I was out of town I overlooked a turn. Because I was thinking of her and the tears started to burn. So in my one ton dually customized a rope thrown in back. A saddle with her name on it over a bumpy road and a track. I left to ride the trail again, see the places we once were. Feeling she was there with me in her saddle and my spurs. I kicked the roan and took the trail overlooking the countryside. I stopped at a site we both picked out to build for my bride. Desolate still and bare, save the trees we loved so much. Stones for the fireplace and hardwood for her hutch. I envisioned her and I in the den all wrapped in blankets all alone. Watching the firelight dance and the smell of our home. Oh well as I threw the dirt, maybe someday soon I hope. I took the reins and led the horse down the grassy slippery slope. The Masked Writer <,.-> (C) 2002 T Lovett |