If I Become A Highway Man Again Poem by James McLain

To a certain wanton, breed of you.
Whom it bled? Does it even matter?
Where it then again, like you, I hear
it comes, it came from you are certain.
So long as only certain things,
I ride away, back in again, from you.
But if my, 'Love is Gold, 'I gave to you.
Each bag is full and heavy as you check,
and the windows are all likened me, so dark.
You motion that the door is just now, clear
and riding quickly up to you, inside I come.
Into that mirrored face, I look again.