Ode to Simple Things

I want to smoke my cigarette with Johnny Depp

on the patio of an Irish café, discussing how his children are doing,

if I would like another beer,

what he will do with his newest role in my newest movie,

and other simple little things.


I want to be confident in knowing

there is absolutely no one watching me change

in the locker room

and laughing into their shirts

so I can’t hear.


I want to, one day, find that red-tailed hawk,

lying dead of old age

in the middle of the waving timothy

and alfalfa,

and have his body stuffed and mouted

on a pedestal,

to collect dust on the shelf in my closet.


I want Fred Phelps to drop dead.  Preferably within the week.


I want a crisp, warm set of sheets,

fresh from the dryer,

and the time to fold

and reflect

on why I had to wash them in the first place.


I want him to ask me what I want, just so I can say,

I want to pick you up from your knees and ask you if you really thought I’d ever say no.

I want to get happily frustrated at our family, because we both know

they are just keeping us from going back to the hotel.

I want to hold your hand every day of my life, even when you don’t know it’s me anymore.

I don’t want much, and I don’t want it right now.

I just want to know that it’s coming.

I want you.


One thought on “Ode to Simple Things

  1. Pingback: [DISCUSS] Ding Dong, Fred Phelps is Dying… and what not to do about it | Virginia the Viruliferous

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