Gush 5:52

County line,  North fence, Buck’s place,
you stop the truck. No need to ask…. dusk
end  of the road, FM 17. Both of us turning 18
next week.  Confluence. The link, explosive
potential anxious hope, a cacophony of desires

It could all be here-our answers, you say, no one else’s…
-Run your fingers over the barbs-
if no shirt is torn, no finger punctured, hope     
will follow, a gush, a free fall, a roulette in motion.

Games in Ellington, bored on a Friday night,
you a new mechanic, me an operator, but with each other
you say- your truck, your girl, a cold six-pack and three
longhorns staring through us- the essentials for happiness
are all here, crossroads or no, the recipe for the
finest joys      imaginable….

I twirl the rose you gave me, mumble  “imaginable”
smell it again wonder  if it’s possible
to drain the life from something by smelling it       
too many times. You smile- pull me closer,

-how many times you gonna do that…?-

Life. Simple. Big as a sunset, smaller
than the next heartbeat. I hold
my breath and wait for the next words –

or a kiss.

Inspired both by a whorl & a conversation about steers in Texas.

Poems 52:365

List of highways numbered 17One of several longhorn steers along HWY 377 j...

Author: tara linda

musician, poet, art and jewelry-maker

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