I Can't Love You

There are so many things it could be…
Broken hearts, false promises, whispered nothings
In the dark of the early morning hours
But could it be, simply, that…

I’m a city girl and you’re a country boy.

I saw you with her
Nestled under street lamp’s grinning glow
Hands laced like new running shoes.

You, in your size 11 work boots,
Mossy Oak hat cocked sideways,
Khaki Carharts smeared with grease
From monkey-wrenching the engine
In your ’95 extended cab Chevy.

She matched you perfectly
In a Fox Racing hoodie and gray thermal
Under a camo jacket.
Distressed denim boot cut jeans
And loggers on her feet.

I hibernate in coffee shops,
A black and white speckled journal at my side,
Face peered close to the cavernous pages of chicken scratch
Hands stained with ink kisses.

I dance about the streets
In the middle of the night,
steps carried by music wings,
playing tag with sweeping trees.

I sleep on sheets of tar
Waiting for Sunset’s call
And Midnight’s shouts close to my ear.
I can’t love you.

I’m a country girl and you’re a city boy.

I call a rickety old house,
Wearing a coat of peeling paint
Numbers scrawled in Sharpie
Sunken steps leading to a flapping door-
Home.

I’m enslaved daily by Midway Oil company
My fingers cramped and soles worn from
Thankless hours for shitty pay,
Floundering for paper satchels
Harboring bread, milk, and peanut butter.
Spare cents given to Mama Dukes
To help with the month’s rent.

My chariot’s a ’95 Mercury Tracer,
A white bundle of junk.
I call him Murphy.

I wear worn jeans, two sizes too big
Wife beaters, usually in black, purple, blue, or yellow
Underneath a Pac Sun hoodie I’d picked up for 20 bucks
And black DCed skate shoes or brown work boots,
Youth size seven.

I’m a ginger she-devil
You’ll hear my language of fists and
Elvis Presley lip curl
That’s how I do,
A country girl from Southern Vermahhhh.

You swagger the city streets
In your Abercrombie Jeans and $90 dollar kicks
Silver pin-striped button down slid underneath a jacket
Of jet-black leather and chrome zipper.

Tonight, under the parking cone orange and florescent yellow
Glow of Finnigan’s Pub
Against the circles of AC DC, Buckcherry, and Lynrd Skynrd wamping
Through the gold trimmed double doors and walls of brick,
You own the world.

You’re a motor-head in a 3000 GT
Sleek black and chrome racing stripes
To match the sexy leather armor you don
When you saunter your seductive steps.

You call a three story,
Red brick and gray shingled,
Cherry stained wrap around porch-
And French balcony doors that smirk
At the crumbling, sniveling wooden elders-
Home.

You rule Epic Records
Fourth level corner office,
Silver-gray walls
Black masses of steel and titanium
And mountains of comfy chrome,
20-inch monitor sharing
Your satisfied smirk as you play rock-band
With Bic pens against the cherry surface of your desk.

We’re worlds apart, you and I
I’m trouble and you’re the golden boy.
The future’s been handed to us
Though different paths we take.

We’re a pair of aces
In this secret web woven just for two
You and I.
You’re my sexy leather legend,
And I your ginger spitfire.

You’re my country boy
Counting the stars in the back of your Chevy
Snuggled under a thick fleece blanket,
Kissing the night away.
I’m your city muse,
Wistful lines of metaphor and simile
Rock wrapped words and leather armor
Poetry lips and ink kissed hands.

Most nights, I can’t love you.
You’re a country boy and I’m a city girl.
But for just one night, maybe I could love you,
Because I’m a country girl and you’re a city boy.