M. B. Poet Free verse

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

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