Rock Star!

To the extent that you wanted me to quit drinking,
I probably should’ve, if it meant I could’ve really had you (if that was possible).
To the extent that I should’ve played in a band all along,
it was always on my mind.
To the extent that you would sound good on (at least) one new song,
it’s true – like Neko Case, like Neko Case.
To the extent that I miss you,
infinitely, infinitely.
To the extent that I realize it was all wrong,
infinitely, infinitely.
To the extent that I want you and Ramon and Travis to be happy,
infinitely, infinitely.
And the glasses.
And the bully pulpit.
And the children.
And the screen door.
Great American novels.
23 minutes.
Grocery lists.
Saturday sandwiches.
I can cook. You cannot.
If we had fallen in love under a democratic regime,
i am sure it would have all been different.
Right?
You would’ve kept your hair short,
and had no reason for fear nor lent.
No reason for retreat nor fear.
Sometimes I wish this was a text message,
and that you would come running,
but that’s just wrong.
When/if you cry,
I (want to) taste the salt in your tears,
or for the salt to be tasted,
married,
children,
screen door,
you singing that song.