the nick edwards

i am a left-arm tan, a bug splattered windshield, and pining, pining, pining.

tonight i’ll wash the big sky country out of my clothes and miss you.

think on cowboy poets and wish I was either;

all leather straps and riding chaps and inked paper.

i’m reading what you wrote on my mirror to get me through;

counting the days in strange ways

to make the calendar fold in on itself.