Words gallop across the plain,
Kicking dust into the air,
Until only shadowy figures remain
Obscured by sunlight
Breaking from behind the horizon.
Across the ridge by memory they race,
Whooping and waving the herd into place.
Though committed they mock wild thoughts
Like a cowboy's clumsy lasso
Thrown wide, but missing its mark.
Both leave an empty space
Circled by good intentions.
You keep trying to lead me
To what I need to see.
But I can't drink.
Hold tight instead, my eyes.
Take shelter in the dark, stay free.
I knew a man, who, for a while
Lived aboard a tugboat
Though yachts were more his style.
That day we passed the Fontainbleau,
Where once we ordered room service,
Ate caviar and lobster with your aunts.
You said it smelled like old people
But the view was nice. Happenstance.
And even then we were both turning away,
Hiding our faces from the fresh longing, coming
From down the street, an unwelcome friend at the end of day.
Remember the trip to Key West,
When we all ate conch fritters
At the side of the road.
Stumbled past the homeless man
Wrapped in a tarp in the park.
It was so dark.
Those were different times.
Our times.
How they change.
Stay the same.
Mine to chase
Across the wasted land,
Untethered,
Untamed.
Horses born in the wild
Don't trust the scent of humans.
It's the longing that grows deep into the night
As the days pile up like autumn leaves,
And hoof beats over brittle grass taking flight.
It's the longing that turns dreams into new memories.
And then the searching begins, searching for someone to bring -
What?
Galloping. Galloping.
Pieces of you.
Someone who saw a sunset once
From the bow of the Midnight Lace.
Stars. Like the one your daddy named.
I would have loved him. You both did.
More layers. Always more. Keeping pace.
And you at the centre.
Who is left to remember
Remembering itself?
You scheming in your shimmering shirt
That you proudly called gold lamé.
Would she roll her eyes still, today?
If anyone asked, what would I say? Disco.
But who will ask?
Was that real? Was any of it real?
I feel you asking now, what is real?
Someone who ate grits and frog legs
On the way to Sanibel Island. In the heat.
Remembers that song you hated
Though I swore I loved the beat.
I want to be a cowboy.
And you can be my cowgirl.
Her demanding, why does it matter?
To end the squabble gnawing at her.
We drove through her hometown.
There, still, and inferior.
Where they sprayed the rose bushes.
Until the perfection poisoned her.
That was the time.
Remember?
Anyone?
Nothing can change this.
Not money. Not truth. Not facts. Not knowing.
Memory breaking like waves with the wind when blowing.
We were many times, together three.
Not just in a dream or on this page.
Our own, holy, trinity.
