Western Union

I want to write you a message
in ink, in Santa Fe

and seal it in an envelope
sometime in the 1800’s.

I want it carried by pony
after pony. I want it

to get lodged
under a mahogany desk

in a dusty post office
in Abilene for 6 months

and be constantly stepped on
by muddy boots.

On a Thursday, I want
someone to open a window

in that office and I want
the envelope to blow

down Main Street
to the train station.

I want it to get caught
in the wheels of a locomotive

and spend 1000 revolutions
getting to Fort Smith.

I want a gunfighter
to pick it up and put it

in his breastpocket.
Later that night,

I want him to get drunk,
cheat at poker,

and get outdrawn.
I want the piano-player

to stop playing mid-song.
I want the sheriff

to take the message
from his breastpocket,

still smoking and full
of bullet holes,

recognize your name
and hand it to you

across the bar.
When you see it

I want you to need
a shot of bourbon.

Later, when your shift is over
I want you to go upstairs

and place it by the lace
in the drawer of your nightstand.

I want you to wonder
what it is I want.

I want you to wonder
if you’ll ever want

to open it.

–March 2016