It was on a busy street corner in San Antonio when I first saw him, San Pedro and Hildebrand on a typical hot summer day. His saddle lay beside the cement bus bench. He wore a checkered shirt neatly tucked into old dirty faded denim blue jeans. A red bandana was tied around his neck. I imagined his tan pointy cowboy boots were once cocoa colored and new. His cowboy hat dwarfed his head casting a shadow much larger than his small frame.

His sky blue beat up old car was his loyal horse patiently waiting in the background. He carried a lasso in one gloved hand. The other was covered in wrinkles and history.

Cars passed by. Some people waved or honked at him. Some laughed and some smiled awkwardly. Others drove by deliberately looking away, afraid to notice him, afraid to acknowledge someone so out of place, too busy to be bothered.

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