Ode to Texas

There’s not much to love in the land of 72 ounce steaks Air-conditioned grace droning over AR-15 soaked Saturdays Remembering is not the problem these days Rather it is forgetting that Children can have new names If they pick them up with their own hands The bootstraps have all but worn off these snakeskin boots And I am tired of something I can’t put my mind to yet But I never thought I would love Bird feces soliloquies Thanksgiving apart from family Humidity on top of humidity Or evenings that never turn to nights So I’ll just hold my own name Firmly in soiled hands until I can Plant it back in the ground Where it belongs, beside a cool swift stream Shaded by a bigleaf maple