Passenger

Fat tires bear the weight of a giant sloth

and crackle against my driveway clawed away

like cats at carpets.

My front door squeaks and groans as I

lunge my way out of it.

Your car door squeaks and groans as you

crawl uncomfortably, your arms and legs stretching

out like worms in the rain.

I try to sit beside you.

You say, “Sorry,” like a scared kitten,

or you say, “I apologize,” but verbose and suave,

while our hands dart busy like bees

to get your crumpled papers,

or your savory-smelling wrappers,

or your old-fashioned wooden box of cassette tapes

into the chaotic back-seat universe

so that my colorful butt

may sit on your shiny leather

or mesh fabric

or peach-fuzzy

seat,

and my fashionable feet

have an open playroom.