I want a clothes line
and to live     
in the kind of place that
has no rule against
my clothes being seen without
me in them.  Or me
without my clothes,
for that matter.

I want partly cloudy skies over
tallgrass prairie, always.
There’s nothing better than that.

I want a man to talk
with in the coffee shop: someone
who will wipe the foam
from my lip with
his napkin, then later make
love to me  
while an afternoon shower pelts
the window panes;
I want him to read to me
naked,
but leave by dusk, so
I can sleep
catty-corner across the bed.

I want a good, sturdy
camera and a
plethora
of gravel roads.

I want overalls,
faded soft at the knees, and
soil under my fingernails
from nurturing green
babies seed
to stem
(and I want to know how
to do that).



I want a screen-porch with a
slouchy wicker swing
where I can read
or daydream
or just listen to the buzz
of insects in lust; I want nobody
waiting in the house,
except maybe a cat
or two.

I want paint on
my elbow and glue in
my hair
and glitter spilling
out of an upturned hem.

I want a kitchen table
that used to be a door to
a place with some
history;
I want to surround it with
laughter: friends
who will knock on it
with sangria glasses and
playing cards and plates of
brownies.

I want music that means
something,
a gritty-smooth voice laid
against some
dirty chords so I
can feel it,
everywhere.

I want a mimosa tree and lacy
redbuds, dancing.  If
you pray to the god of
pink-blossomed trees, they
will grow for you,
wherever you live.