Imagine we meet up on the corner of some tumbleweed-tossing town.
When I think back on it, it’s a couple of seconds, a rush from the plate to the mound, a flash, a gasp, and my grip on my father’s arm. It was August 4, 1993, and we watched from a high-up section
Lone Star bottles were a dollar that night, and a leather-clad, hair-shaking woman howled “Whipping Post” on the stage. You took down the grit of her voice in your beer, swallowed it like you had
I was returning to a Texas town I had no business in,
and when I took him back into my bed, snuck into
his office between classes and locked the door,
I knew that you knew,