The ways we would wear it.
Cropped close and singing in the wind,
long notes heard on other side of telephone lines.
How many pairs of boots, cigars in ashtrays,
flannel shirts hammered and hidden,
woven into the promises of our grandfathers.
How many miles wide
our grass covered plains
smoothed by oceans
full of fossils and
How many hours in front of mirrors,
necks creaking and pulling and
straining with each new sprout.
We’d garden each other into it.
Take each other to the barber shop,
the hardware store,
Spin our stools around and point
ring our mirrors together,
spill ourselves over with revelry.
For all the first times we’d feel our bodies
lined up just right against yours.
Bristling and strong.
Just children in the night.
For the rooms full of lifetimes full of you listening,
us more boring and you sweeter with
every knuckle and knee, every bicep and backside,
full of that thing that made us
For all the ways
We could wipe it away
Shaving it close, plucking it out by the root.
about the ways we had to work at it.
Chide each other about where it came in.
more important than the last.
For how just when it might have
it would begin to wane.
How we’d go to war in the dark
ashamed and without history books to
reference a battle strategy.
Get rid of it, or leave it cornered and
whispered behind our ears, a memory in meters.
How you’d let us rest our weary parts
in your laps and pretend
You’d never heard a sadder tale.
For the way we could never make it up to you,
and for the way we wished we could.