Wild Horses

I leaned over your desk,
left a paperweight snow globe— 
in it a floating message that everything 

changes—hoping you’d see
that meant that everything could
circle our track around to finish at home.

After hard training came roads—
Kentucky winter paved with your name,
I fell into your sea to see vistas looking for spring.

But no one rings the phones
today—only the sound of bosses
sounding the interoffice messaging apps

on the MacOffice computer
reminding to pick up only memories,
pick up notebooks, pens, and papers—

I’m tired of writing about you.
I’m tired of talking circles about you.
I was tired of the amorous love faces you would make.

It is every night I want to unbutton 
your blouse and my Levi’s jeans—to take a bite 
of your mouth—without disturbing your personal affairs:

rip the bit out of your mouth, 
lay the saddle in the dirt, and pretend 
for a happy marriage for seven whooping hours.

I don’t know. Will you’ll find me 
acceptable?—We’ll write a contract
over Eggs Benedict—I’ll cook—then a fiery look

will come over your auburn eyes, 
almost angry, where you’ll kick me in the teeth 
saying, “Nice plan, but I’m everyone you’ve ever had.”