To George Ohr

It drips through the cracks,
the slip in my fingers.
My headlight is ablaze.
Pry it open
take it crowbar style
to your ranch hands.
It will never get there
unspoiled.
I had it wrapped to save the trouble
It was an ideal,
ripe for the picking
just right but never fulfilled.
The precious two
adjoining rooms
optical illusions to soothe
the solitary confinement.
They never made it past dreams of Arizona
those pretty words
tied snug with satin ribbons.
Keep them in your cedar chest
to fret over when it is too late.
You tell me it is okay to leave
no holding back my reins -
just
go.
You have a callus overgrowth
the twist of your words
just like our bodies.
A knife in my palm -
I can't.
I will accept the last meal
change my horizons to suit you.
Be something for someone else
who is lost.