That deep talking stage, late night wine
in fine restaurants: you say
your fantasies include elevators,
candlelight, a trail of my clothing
from the kitchen sink to the bathtub.
How do I tell you my fantasies are
Pueblo, Colorado, just after sunrise, or
late night driving through California
singing to Hank Williams’ tunes
on the AM radio? We might go to Reno;
we might go to Shreveport.
We might. We could.
Your silver thermos between my knees,
powdered donuts, and all the stories
you ever knew clear across Montana.
Bed and breakfast in Provo, Utah;
gas from Mom and Pop
who’ve been married 50 years,
who say we remind them of their youth,
and here’s an extra package of butterhorns,
you kids drive careful.
My hand in your lap where
sometimes the fabric is loose, sometimes
not -- oh I’d love you
even in Rupert, Idaho, under the neon
“EAT” sign, in the middle of the night,
when they’ve just sold the last
chicken fried steak.