Boy Racer

Its throaty, I can hear it rumble-tumble down the road long before it gets here. Its sleek, I see my face reflected in red well-polished painted perfection. Its fun, I can feel the beat bouncing from an amplifier stored in an unseen place. Its his, I see him under the latest baseball cap when he shows off his car. Its my, Knock on the door, my wishing for a visitor, my connection with womb, my son.