Cactus Man

I’m the cactus man,
my needs are few—
a bit of sun,
a drop of dew,
the second look
that no one’s owed—
some subtle sign
my mind could hold.
And with these crumbs
I would erect
a monument
to your neglect—
all scale and spine,
and primed for drought,
in hopes you'd find
my cactus sprout.

I’m the cactus man—
a prick from birth;
your backup plan,
for what that’s worth.
Surviving here,
outside my cave,
where all this sand
reeks of the grave.
Still I persist
through storm and dust,
cursed with the skin
you dare not touch.
But should you look
beyond my doom,
I’d show you this—
my cactus bloom.

I’m the cactus man,
your kiss I crave,
but this old face
could use a shave.
And these dry hands
I offer now
are not ideal—
but would, somehow,
remove the stones
that weigh us down,
and dry those tears
in which you drown,
then nurse these wounds
till we're both healed,
to leave you this—
my cactus field.