Summertime. The Celsius is up. The black flies are biting. My convertible is awake.
It has slunk, dusty, in the garage all winter long.
Stashed with life jackets and paddles, camp chairs and hummingbird feeders.
Emptied of battery, empty of spark, empty of gasoline.
Dead, almost completely.
Even the mice in the glovebox found livelier accommodation.
Now it rumbles.
It bites anxiously at the pavement, ready to roll.
Open roads beckon like sirens.
Curvaceous lines tremble with anticipation.
We are in lust again, he and I.
I am his lover.
He is my pet.
Together we will move as one.
On a sultry night in late spring.
When the Celsius is up.
We will ride.