For years now, we’ve been criss-crossing
this same largesse of valley.
It has provided for us, plenty. You’ve been
my homoerotic sidekick, Bryan.
Excuse me. Ryan. There. You see?
I am promiscuous with even my own wit.
& I can never keep you straight.
All the boys of recent memory
have been like this: accomplice,
adjutant, aide-de-camp.
I should just toss you my thesaurus.
There are words for the kind
of love we have,
though none of them quite suffice.
Well. Why be verbose?
This is—to put it quite demotic—
how we roll.
Whether stopping off in Stanislaus
so I could nibble me some ribs,
or taking the backroad up to Dixon
for your taste of hot tamale,
we’ve served each other well.
Oh, we’re a fine pair.
We also know exactly what to order.
Eventually, they kick us out
of the Silver Dollar Saloon.
Buck up, my little buckaroo.
Every Western ends this way:
Sunset. Chaps.
The valley’s just like San Francisco,
but without so many kissers.
The warbler has two notes
that he prefers from all his repertoire.
But there are others he reserves
for loftier joys, profound sadness,
as well as his most savage flights of fancy.
These he also reserves for you.