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Twenty years after our first date
we still eat bologna and sweet
pickles after a little rough. You
still spit too much, but at least
you leave your cow-shit-boots
and too-big-buckles on the porch.
I watch your body still.
The way your calloused hands
beat back cows and pump my crystal
and fine old oak from udders
all day. I watch you shovel out ditches,
mend hot wires, and bleed.
So you ain't no political faucet
or highbrow wit, but
I dig it when you call me "baby,"
and the Ooh Ah nights of lovín.
Come here and romp my style off.
Homogenize me 'til I holler heav'n.
Tina Newman
