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Aristotle made me chuckle the other day:
Benefactors, however, love and like their beneficiaries even if they are of no future use to them. The same is true of craftsmen; for each likes his own product more than it would like him if it acquired a soul. Presumably this is true of poets most of all, since they dearly like their own poems, and are fond of them as though they were their children. (Nicomachean Ethics, Book IX, 1168a)
Ah, parenthood.
Irregular Cowboy
Texas never knew a cowboy Quite like this: Air-conditioned, singing along to metal-stringed gee-tars And the southern twang of unseen country boys. He hates this part—the thrill before the round-up. One cocky hand bestrides curving leather; The other tames his coffee, Sloshing ceramic walls. The last sip tastes sweetest. Cold, starved coffee, but comforts stretch before a storm. He dumps the grounds under her humming chassis Onto concrete, where the rain will wash away. He shoulders a bag and, lunch in hand, Crosses the parking lot—while reading email. Cowboys used to be on time. The cool click of heeled half-boots Signals his arrival; A few steers stiffen; Some toss their necks, or stamp. Attuned to every wandering bull that would butt heads, Our vaquero irregular surveys under the guise Of cool, uncaring, occupied eyes. The count is good; the cattle-drive begins. In no hurry, he rounds the room. Every knot must be tight, every bit true. He ropes with quiet, seasoned questions, Wrangles with up-ending silence. Ungrateful lowings echo empty plains: A seeming-sorry payment for his pains. He loves these cows—in a way No city-slicker at a greasy spoon could understand. Who else would keep vigil with him, In the poverty of a coarse-yellow bed and spangled roof?
What is the yellow bed at the end? Also, you should read this to your steers and see what they think.
"One cocky hand bestrides curving leather; "
Is that referring to his belt?