Love Poem After Roadhouse
We’ve been going hot and heavy for a little while now. I thought the tacos turned out rather well on Saturday night, and if the tacos are a metaphor for our love, then we’re doing great. But let’s skip these cooing pleasantries and get to the crux of the matter: would I rip out another man’s throat for you? Honey, I’m not sure. There’s a lot I would do if you asked me to: move to some small Texas town, for instance, or begin a regimented practice of tai chi. I suppose if the situation warranted it, sure, I’d get into a bar fight, should your honor be insulted, or just because it’s a way to pass the time. I would probably let you staple-gun my knife-wounded side together, but only if you took off those glasses and undid that French braid to reveal yourself as the beauty you really are. Here, put on this gingham dress that resembles a picnic tablecloth – yes, that’s much better. Hope you don’t mind if I never wear underwear – oh, good, I see you don’t as well. Darling, I don’t know why, in a sea of monster trucks, you’re willing to go for little ol’ me, a simple philosophy scholar with a body chiseled from Michelangelo’s hammer, but I’m not here to ask those sorts of questions – hell, I’d rather talk to the horses, or let them talk to me. But look, I’m still evading the question: would I rip out another man’s throat for you? Let me simply say this: if it’s kill or be killed, I could kill for you. If a man held a gun to your head, I would do everything in my power to wrestle away that gun and put him down instead. I could stab for you, choke-hold for you, scissor-kick in the nuts for you. But would I rip out another man’s throat for you? No. I don’t think I could do that. If that’s going to be a problem, then we should go our separate ways right now, before this thing gets any deeper. Otherwise, I’ll see you Tuesday. Bring the ground turkey. We can make a chili.