You’re flesh and bones
and dusty roads
and small pebbles
in your steel toe work boots and
a desert prickly pear.
You’re where rough hands meet warmth
and callouses mean love.
You’re a worn old Buick with dirt caked tires and
your voice is warm whiskey with hints of sarsaparilla.
You’re Dusty Springfield spooky with fists always knuckled to your belt.
I want to tell you no but the desert wind has me under its spell and you are freedom.