There are many things that I want.
I want to be well read.
Rumi, Salinger, Bukowski, Mojgani, Steinbeck and London dripping off my tongue.
I want to ride every train route from the North to the South.
I want to feel the wheels groan, grumble, laugh and sing.
I want a hand in my hand,
a hand on my heart - counting beats -
and a pair of hands held high
fingers outstretched for all our wanting.
I want bruises, scrapes, battle scars and mayhem.
Flat tires, bounced checks, boxcars
and poems hidden in dress shirts
and favorite dresses.
There are wants inside of me that I can’t speak of.
Wants that are impossible
I want the world
though my arms won’t reach around it.
I want love,
intangible word that it is.
I want want want.
Then I sleep,
to wake up wanting again.