I like the window half-way.
I like the way your hand,
the clutch,
the brake.
If only the others knew of these days
we ride with the top down.
You squint your eyes
at passerbys,
my eyes askew at you,
cruising to the beat
of a nameless song-
a melody
to which only young-at-hearts
can sway.
And the summer winds
come.
And the heat
cools the nerve.
