* * *
Dreams of me
and you in
your black Dodge
truck with roll bars
and dried mud splashed
up the sides.
You with your
dirty blonde hair.
Me in my dress
with the lace
and your warm hand
on my bare leg.
I melt when
you smirk at
me.
It lights up
your angelic face.
I look at you.
You with that
black t-shirt and
faded jeans.
Your mud-caked
work boots resting
down by
the dirty pedals.
Dreams like this
should never end.
Your smell so sweet yet
so masculine.
Filling the
small cab.
You are seventeen;
at your prime.
Much too old
for me.
You are the
forbidden fruit of
my youth.
But I plan to
snatch it off
the tree and
sink my teeth into
the juicy flesh.
My barefeet on
the dashboard of
your truck.
My pink toes
splayed against
the broken glove box.
The muscles on
your tanned arm
flexing
as your hand finds
my small cold one.
Your strong, calloused
fingers intertwining
with mine.
Together we watch
the corn grow in
the field.
Parked on the dirt
back road.
Listening to country
music so sweet.
You lean in
and press your warm lips
to my strawberry
scented neck.
I smile at you
and say,
"I'll see you soon,
time to wake up."
Your angelic
all-American looks
creased with
confusion.
* * *
I look across the
crowded room;
across the saxophones
and trumpets.
Our eyes meet but
you look away.
I see your
mud-caked boots between
the legs of chairs
and watch you
hoist the harness of
the snare drum
over your muscular
shoulders.
So strong from lifting
heavy hay bales
every day.
Smiling,
I look down at
my feet.
Tonight we'll
go for
a tractor ride.
* * *
