I turn on PBR with a sudden craving
for steak, something with a heavy bone to suck
the marrow from. You ask if you should shave
clean-cut, which you think looks better, so I pluck
a cowboy from the screen—please, a little scruff—
and think of you sliding on a pair of Wranglers (a kiss
blown in my direction), mounting that rough-
and-rowdy bull as if you had a death wish.
I am that death wish: the full throttle thrash-
and-thrust all legs and temper, black hair
to the rear. My heart will burn cayenne and dash
through you like nobody’s business buck but swear
for those eight seconds the blood rushing from core
to bulge, it will be yours. I will be yours.