Woolgathering

If I could make my mind up about love,
I might leave this life for another,
cross borders into dark, difficult terrain,
leave my mark upon the soil
for a chance at a living room,
a room like any other marred from life.

If Blake were alive to illustrate,
he'd skip the city and head straight
for the outskirts where grays begin
to glow olive then hunter then lime.
That's where the women are, leaving so
much behind for kitchens hot with appliances.

If big cats stalked the ramparts
of the suburbs, I'd like it more there,
let them sleep in my yard with the tabby
and Irish wolfhound. If damage
stayed localized. If men warred for sport.
If cul-de-sacs. If sedatives. If by the bucket.