In Which I Endure A Little Culture Shock

My dad needed a Stetson cover for

His cowboy hat in case tomorrow's game

Is rainy. So we went down to a store

That I should have known, just from its mere name

Would shock me. At the Boot Barn I went blind

From flashing glare off th'encrusted bling

Of Christian cowgirl belts, hung up, aligned

For maximum impact. So here's the thing:

Who wears such things, and for what kind of date

Are crosses made of rhinestones round one's waist

Sartorially most appropriate?

I know full well the question is of taste,

But wonder, too, what strange new form of prayer

Takes such a form, and really, why I care.

SONNET DARE: In Which I Plan My Annual Hasty Escape From Cheyenne

Cheyenne is where I live and work, but lo:
Each summer comes a time when it's like hell.
At first in June the streets are torn up so
That bike commuting's best, though a hard sell
For folks who love their pickups as these do.
Post-haste a summer's worth of work is done
In preparation for an onslaught. Coo!
Frontier Days brings all, under one hot sun,
That I like least about Wyoming life:
Fake cowboys, amateur drunks, strafing planes,
Loud music that goes twang and redneck strife
(Thanks, Walter, for this dare to list my banes).
At least it leaves the mountains free for those
Who like Wyoming for its sweet repose.