872

swatted at wasps
sat on a lawn chair
was writing poetry
for a woman that don’t know
my childhood home
and wondered if it mattered
or if I wanted any secrets
other than my own

i don’t sleep

i made myself a cowboy
in my damn dreams
a cliche with denim
and rolled tobacco

when I’m awake
I put calluses on my fingers
and goddamn
I wished I played for her