Those roads have curved for years.
Your lips greasy with simosas
wrapped around the telephone pole
scaling high enough to tell me you're
melting.
We have not ridden in a truck together,
but we both have ridden in a truck.
I want a cab seat
with my bare feet on your lap
and my growing hair out the window
clinging to the grabber blue paint.
I want your hand to know
the gears by heart -
always shifting at the right moment.
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