In awe of your corporeal space
I sit parked in your station wagon
with the faux-wood trim, reciting lines
to your thrust, your roominess.

I can’t bear to pull out, preferring
your 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 just
to feel the ridged pleasure of you

in my hands, breathing
your reply, verse after salted verse.

For Kerry’s prompt to the Real Toads: POETIC VOICE