Ignition


Keys clang decorative chains,
poised at a point between parked
and alive. My exhaust pipe esophagus
drinks this bitter perfume like brandy.
Beside me, you watch the windshield, wait
for the moment my foot presses the pedal
to freedom. Your fingers trace glass
still smudged with yesterday’s handprints,
our passenger-seat secrets somewhere
here, a surface only these keys can skim.
They twist, ignition-locked. I shove
a stagnant stick shift into motion;
satisfaction stirs in my gut, unfurls,
the gasoline thrum of dehydrated veins.

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