That I made a better door
than a window, but I just
couldn’t open up that way.
That my eyes were the windows
to my soul—yes, my beady,
unblinking hazel eyes—them.
That I had a beautiful
soul, blessed in ordinary
shades of Rio Grande red.
That I was a bleeder, or,
perhaps I misheard that one,
a breeder with those big hips
of mine. Texas was a state
I’d rather not live in, but
live in I did. My state of
mind permanently altered
by everything spoken with
a twang. That I never paid
any of them any mind
at all was chief among their
many complaints. One of
these days I won’t know whether
I’ll be coming or going or
just plain gone. I’d confess
to saying almost any
thing if it would do some good,
even writing this poem.
