out to pasture.

we sit on the swing i assembled—
but you bought.
your knees ache in the quiet.

at night, your breath
stutters, shudders,
rattles the frame of our king bed.

i remember—long before me—
you rode a motorcycle
from indiana to florida,
drank with gangsters
in outlaw bars,
patched members vouching.
(hells angels wanted you,
but you chose freedom
over being tied down.)

you rode through texas,
where you’re no longer welcome.
(the sheriff? the feds?
who warned you away?)
you pawned gold from your body—
for gas, for food.

now i lie awake beside you,
your breath too fragile to ignore.
your body remembers the road—
but can’t bear it anymore.

by day, we tend tomatoes,
pet cats, watch the game,
debate mortgage rates—
a quieter risk.

could this compare to your past?
even if not—
your spine, your lungs, your hands
say the ride is over.

am i the tether
dragging you down
when you should be
straddling a machine,
riding the country,
selling the treasure
still dripping from your bones?

you were a stallion.
maybe the pasture suits you.

maybe this marriage
is the hospice you wanted—
the garden, your highway.
maybe you love it.
or maybe you don’t.

i can’t sleep,
not knowing.

from your sigh,
i know you can’t either.