the Yearning

The Yearning.

El Rocio, my dream, how I long for this walk
to end my feet are tortured and have lost spring
of youth, I’m not “Hoppalong Cassidy”,
the bright cowboy who didn’t smoke but chewed
gum and kept an eye on the baddies of his frontier
town...at the same time. The church in El Rocio
is white and inside airy as the blue sky, I’ll sit on
its steps and wait for my first love to come; and as
liver-spotted hands meet, years will melt away,
laughter, how silly we’re in those days. And I will
look into your face and see you as you were when
seventeen. You will promise me to be there on
the last hour of my life when my years roll back
until they meet up with infinity