Tree House

Can I sit in your car?  I do not want to drive.
I want to breathe its scent.
I want to put my hands on your ten and two.
I want to tour your eleven and standard.
I want to pretend I am you and honk.
I want to road rage and fire birds.
I want to talk your engine, pedals,
windshield, mirrors, and visors.

Over the shoulder, glanced backward.
End.  Tall grass.  Dying tree.  Thick moss,
heavy breeze.  Fan tail mushrooms sprout
in hula hoops like stairs.  For when we were small.
Planks have rotted away.  Rope ladder?
Shells of insects and leaves dried to potpourri
that could be pestled, knuckles to palm.
Torn shoelace and an old jacket and a
slumping wet box of .22s