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 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
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.