Perfectly in your blind spot was a mole,
One that sprouted a hair so mighty that
A buzzard could perch upon it to brood.
Gladly, I harvested said hair for you.
Below your eye and right above your cheek
was the space where hairline wrinkles brush across
Your face like child-drawn rays of sunshine.
Wrinkles created by late-night painful laughter.
Each time you sang “Rocket Man” in public,
I rolled my eyes with adoring tolerance.
Every indecipherable tattoo
I loved–for they were mine to consider.
Without anyone to drag in the mud
The smell of salt, sweat, and hay lingers still
Even though the corner by the front door