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A chrome plated Idaho shotgun
Touching the silence of a tongue
Don’t want quilts of Mississippi ice
Below the bridge floating past
The gongs of a church steeple
Don’t want an award for the swan dive
From the Golden Gate Bridge
Waving goodbye to all the cow bells
In Beatrice Nebraska
Want to be lying
On my left side
In a soft bed
Or comfortable couch
With a dry roof over my skull
Want to be
Thinking of my parents
Holding each other
Then holding me home from the hospital
My voice a pip
Trying to squeak Thank you Thank you
