Lone fruit grown
on the barren tree.
No pits in the planes
of the harem leaves.
Such ache for same
that it plucked with ease
at the first touch
to curl ‘round its curve.
A hand’s demand
to tug upon its yearn, its greed.
On the mesh of teeth discerned,
picked of flesh but not of seed.
Heart stripped, heart spit
to scarcity.

Daddy’s got the wheel
Mommy will take
when his grip
has lost its zeal.

In a bit,
she’ll feel
the weary too.
He steps in again
when her eyelids
start to droop.

On this long trip,
they take turns
as their respective
fires burn.

Each time one
drives anew,
less press lives
within their shoes.

And in the backseat,
Kiddo churns –
brim with kick,
dangling legs yearn
for the pedal
they can’t reach.

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