Make Shadowy Paramours
I have known much
more mustache
than this. It belongs
to a known and
tranquil killer
names Harry, who,
by five, an
evening shadow
latched against
my side, twists
and twirls into
conniptions if but
to snag a bit of
attention so that,
like it or not,
we dance like
ticklish kids
around the house
for hours and
hours, until
a rash develops
on the skin between
my ribs and the
woolen shirt
which I untuck to
rid myself of all
the loosened hay
and earth and
crumbled leaves
accumulated from
a day of chasing
cow dogs over
the subdued
tricking creeks
and over the
rolling hills
of pastures
with my
whiskery
companion chasing
me without once
becoming short-
winded, even
stopping once just
to pick me a handful
of wildflowers,
no further away
than a couple
of steps, right
at my heels
all along the way.
