In awe of your corporeal spaceI sit parked in your station wagonwith the faux-wood trim, reciting linesto your thrust, your roominess.I can’t bear to pull out, preferringyour sweet little tree in my lungs,intoning devotion to naugahyde,wishing after wishing you were here.It’s no secret I’m smitten.I could palm your dash all day,rub your fabric the wrong way justto feel the ridged pleasure of youin my hands, breathingyour reply, verse after salted verse.
For Kerry’s prompt to the Real Toads: POETIC VOICE