one of the 38 peacemaker colts
and fourteen cowboy suits,
the spinning top from Grandma
and the skis, as well as those contraptions
that would cut into the leather of our boots,
we’d float across the ice; the Bowie knife
at fourteen years, and then the twenty-two,
three speeds, it was the envy of all bikes,
I can’t remember all, though it was grand,
I still get wobbly in the knees at Christmas time.
For you, my love, I’d give them all,
I’d also though reluctantly abandon it,
the other colt, for being close to you,
in fact for holding your delicious little hand.