Three Hours to Denver

My heart is a horse.
It rode itself to
the end of the sunset,
took a right by
the last cactus standing,
you were there, just out of sight…
standing below a shadow tree,
asking me, would I like
to come sit for a spell?
I know if I say yes
I’m going to hell…

Still, it’s a hell of a hand basket.

I’m masquerading as a poet.
Parading as a deep thinker.
When the fingers touch you,
they only do so to smother.

I can write this down,
put a stamp on the letter,
put it in a mailbox and wait
for a response, but you’ll
smoke another cigarette,
not thinking about it at all.

I’m getting on a plane.
I’m taking my seat.
The pilot comes on the radio.
I’m already halfway gone.
It’s three hours to Denver.
I’m buried in snow.

The mountains look like crumpled-up tin foil.
The person next to me snores quietly.
I look at my hands, they’re explosive devices.
I have no idea how they made it past security.

I’m pretending sympathy.
Defending this make believe.
When I open my heart to you,
it’s only to swallow you.

My heart has a saddle
you crafted from fine leather.
There is a carving of the moon,
and a cactus, and your name.
And if you look closer,
there is no saddle at all.


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