Second Fiddle

And when the West was won, it was left behind.

A Beeline to the Northeast, the trophy obtained.

E.E. Cummings, perhaps no longer second fiddle to my beloved T.S.

Those musings will have to wait greater dissection.

The inflammatory reality of this same Unit after these many years

Damn near indigestible. And yet, the thing is

I can feel that thin layer of dust-coated forearms,

A high desert spice which gives cause for giddy knees.

That place I tucked beneath every single speck of cell

To patiently await the final anchor- dropped.

Those days when we first met, are clutched close even now

They have never waned in the twilight of any last gleaming

Instead, the effortless patience of delayed gratification

Remains the constant, steady, backstroke of my life.

"Who am I, darlin' to ya...? Who am I?"

Is what I sing to that beloved Southwest Muse.

Perpetual lyrics that have married their meaning to my own.