As the number of my age
Rises by increments
regular as a plow horse
scratches furrow by furrow,
I look forward to the time
when Brenda and I
will soak in her hot tub
and drink strong drinks
among the stars.

In her voice,
the East Texas
will still subvert
the Arkansas,
Her tones,
(husky-sweet,
like Southern Comfort,
but only a little murky)
taking the time,
lingering in her mouth like earnest work,
Its presence palpable,
before it comes to me.

She bids me, “Breathe.”

Then lays that laugh on me, like light to a moth.