You are an arm-chair inside
a sky high younger driver;
boots go on like black soap.
Smuggle me on the next
flight path to you.

You are a comforter atop
a jump of Arkansas rock;
shoes go on like a sponge.
Wring me out of the latest
switchyard to you.

You are an open campfire in
a dedicated October wind;
sandals go on like iron.
Float me over yesterday’s
series of locks to you.