“Nah, not really. A few. I didn’t do much on the road. Didn’t want anyone to see me doing something so feminine.” I made a face but remained silent. As if there weren’t a ton of famous male poets. Why was anything that dealt with deeper emotions than stab, kill, punch considered girly? It was stupid, and sexist, and denied so many men the chance to enjoy great works. “I just started back up since I returned to Snow Creek.”
“I see. I was hoping you had more on you. The first one was so good.”
“Maybe I got one in my head. I mean…it’s not even on paper so, well, and I’m not great with grammar and such but I could maybe…if you wanted to?—”
“Yes! Oh yes, I would love to hear more.” I did a happy little worm dance. Perhaps I was a wriggler after all. Maybe that wasn’t a thing this man disliked because he chuckled softly at my exuberance. “Why don’t you recite another then I can do one? I have a pretty little tome of works by Waddie Mitchell on thenightstand. Oh! I also have some of his CDs if you’d like to hear one?”
“Sure, yeah, I love his stuff.”
“Super. Okay.” I sighed out as my head settled on his chest. “Whenever you’re ready.”
It took him a moment or two as his fingers danced over my shoulder to the fine hairs on the back of my neck then into my shaggy hair. After a long inhalation he began to recite a short poem, four lines, like the other.
“The ride was long, the time runs slow,
Red roan holds my secrets, wet the snow,
In the shadows, he surely knew,
The deepest part of me so true.”
He stilled, even his fingers in my hair stalled. I looked up from my comfy Hoyt pillow to find his eyes boring into me.
“Is it bad?” he asked. Right there I could see a young Hoyt asking for praise from elders, perhaps his rotten poetry-hating father, and getting nothing but scorn.
“It’s wonderful.” He cocked a brow. “Truly. It’s so perfectly you. Succinct yet rich in emotions that peel back the coverings of society to show the world your heart. I love it. Can I ask about the red roan that gallops through your work?”
The smile at my praise faded slightly. “Oh, uhm, he was my horse. Adobe. Sixteen hands. I bought him when I was eighteen. First friend I had after being kicked off the ranch. Looking back I guess having Adobe gave me a link to Snow Creek, and in some way to Jesse, my little brother, if that makes sense?”
“Totally.”
“Anyways, he was my best friend if I were being honest with no slight to Clay my old chute man. He and me slept togetherin his trailer, a pink thing ugly as fuck that I got for a hundred bucks off a gal who did barrel racing. We talked. Well, I guess I talked and he listened. Told him everything about me, being gay, and he never once turned against me. Had him for fifteen years then life caught up to me. Age and injuries. Began losing sponsors after not placing. Soon I couldn’t afford to keep him so I sold him to Kenny Langdon, one of the cowboys on the circuit. Nice guy. Doing real well for himself. Got a ranch in Oklahoma.”
“Do you and he write to each other?” I ran my finger round a dark blue button, listening to his heart beating slow and sure.
“Me and the horse? Nah, he ain’t real good with a pencil.”
I giggled then flicked his belly gently. “No, goose, you and the man who owns Adobe. Do you keep up with news about him?”
“Nah, that would hurt too much. Someday when I get my head out of my ass I’ll reach out, maybe buy him back, but that’s a pipedream probably. Right now I’m mooching electric off my brother while I dream of going back to the circuit. Guess a man has to have some dreams though, right? Otherwise what’s the point of going on?”
I lifted my head. He looked so forlorn. This poor gentle, loving soul. It broke my heart. Somehow I had to help him find his friend Adobe. I had no idea how to go about that but I would stew on it.
“Tolkien said that a single dream is worth more than a thousand realities. So please, dream those dreams.”
“Yeah, okay, I’ll keep dreaming. What will you dream about tonight?”
I wormed my way up slightly to put my lips to his. “This. I shall dream of this.”
I’d not slept so wellin ages.
Hoyt came awake with a shout of alarm when Roberto crowed loudly from the back porch.
“What the holy hell?!” He sat up like a shot, rolling his left shoulder as his wide eyes flew from me tumbling off him to the bed. “Jesus Christ. That rooster is loud.”
“Yes.” I flung my hair from my eyes to sit up. “I call him Roberto Concerto due to his elegant songs at great volume.”
“The cat is sitting next to him on the railing.”
