Dirt road kind of love
The skin of our unshaven calves wear socks of dry earth.
The humming of distant metal birds and the whispers of an overgrown wild field.
These are the textures of our home brewed fascination
I could draw the blurring lines of your shoulders
Rounded with farmhand muscle
A thousand times and still drop my jaw in admiration
It’s the kind of love story they sing about in 2000’s country songs
But softer and held precious between our arms and our ribs
Plaid button up shifting against pick-up truck unbelted night rides
My face buried in your long hair, coarse from the sun-rain and the dry, dust-air
Soap and dirt and hay bale hair
Kisses like the revealing of soda cans (which we call pop)
And drunken howling at a full moon so close we could take a bite out of it
To see if it’s really made of Swiss or cheddar or something better
river-walkers brushing off tiny leeches that are too small to cause real harm
We say we’ll both go off to a college up north and to the east someday
Or maybe escape to California where the beach waves
But I’d be content to stay just where I am
I’d be content to live in your dreamer’s eyes
To ride into the sunset with you on the back of a Belgian horse with boots for hooves
I’d be content to drown with you
In the listless belly of the countryside where you can actually tell there are stars in the sky
I’d be content to knit sweaters with you when winter falls
If you wanted that
I’d put my muddy cowboy shoes with spurs I don’t really use
Atop the gas pedal of a vehicle that rumbles a dozen times before ignition
If you wanted to
We could drive eternal on this dirt road and let the miles teach us songs of old
We could wish to be lone rangers like the ones on
Dad’s cassette tapes and write our own versions where the wives are more than household bakers
And the duels are more than bullets
Where the love stories last years instead of minutes
And the bandits are imagined.