For the love of Sake

You'd hate me if you saw
my pinky toe

or smelled the smoke on my flanel shirt
after I cooked eggs on the edge of the canyon

You'd hate me if you heard me singing
nasty songs about stupid people with fat asses
as I careened down some sun-cracked western road

or stomped my way through the tall stalks of corn
littering the plains from Kansas to Nebraska .

You'd hate me if you knew how unimpressed I am by mustangs
chewing the barbed grasses on the mountainside

of the last sunset we watched together from the fog
of a late summer morning in Montana.

Or maybe you'd offer me some sushi
and laugh.