To: the poem

I want you to sing to me like Mingus' bass.
Lift my soul and carry me to the West on your back.
I want to taste dust on my tongue,
want to feel wind sting my eyes,
want to make love on a dirty wooden floor in a Mexican tavern.
I want to slam shots of tequila and lick its bitter syrup from my lips.
I want to keep going: through California, into Oregon, and up to Canada, want to never stop.

But you stop me.
You grab me by the ears and spin me into sobriety.
You make my head pound with resentment toward my father, sympathy for my mother, trepidation of my future.

You make me cower—
make me spit my dreams here.
You want me to shape you into what you write me into.
I would, but I'm no poet.  
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