Dust balls are billowing down these deadbeat streets     in cowboy Ireland     I dreamed that you and Charles Bukowski were taking notes     in revenge     for that one I wrote about you     in the woods… so hell, here’s another one—
                                        I’m wearing high heels and flipping poker chips
as though I lived in Paris, Texas     while I sing and dance your cowboy tunes in a jalopy of ourselves and a car     stitched and bolted back together     and we were so far and running even faster     with a line of trees coming up behind us firing history while we     passed
flat rabbits and killer hogs on roads drawn out     as though mazes on a paper map
until we reached the other side     of the country     Trapped on an island just three hours wide with cow-filled fields overlooking the ocean     I ate sandwiches filled with tomatoes so fresh off the vine and getting fatter by the minute     as though they knew no restraint     while you kicking dirt and clanging away at a pole     by the side of the road on the shores of Dunmore were still packing baggage     three counties wide     and fixing to erupt having decided
to keep those murky secrets to yourself     rather stunning as you would say
how you visibly annul     all those smoke-filled rooms in midland towns
with long crossed legs on tipped back to the ceiling chairs     where our conversations rose
like clouds of moths     as we planned our escape on a road trip out of Ireland     never
having figured in     an ocean     or your luggage     and the birds were watching from the wires while it all played out and the foxes nearly weeping
for where it might have gone
with a bit more road