By Jacob Butlett
I could be a silver butterfly clip in
an airplane passenger’s auburn hair.
Or I could be red-tinted glasses in
a taxi rider’s tan satchel.
I could hold the hand of the man at
the train station, clutch his
callouses like a lover, like a glove.
Or I could caress the lips of the woman at
the bus stop, keep a kiss of her
lipstick on the mirror of my heart.
But I want to be with you, traveling down
gravel roads in Budapest, down
brown canals in Venice, down
ashy hills in Honolulu.
I want to be your passport, duffle bag,
sleeping bag, box of matches whose
flames can carry you away from
darkness like a million moonlit balloons.
I want to be your ears, I want to be your eyes.
I want to be a volcano, your volcano,
bursting with a love so bright, the stars
will roll their eyes in jealousy.
Copyright 2020 Butlett