Fiat

Glazing at the nail-hard rain
from the front seat of my comatose
'95 Fiat, with its echoing tank
and red-rusted doors was, strangely,
when I came to remember
reading in bed every morning.

And that morning,
how we had a pillow fight.

'You're musical, and unprecedented.
Your eyes are sticky as mud.'
It was a fog-heavy daze
the morning we kissed.

Now the gold band on your finger,
is a blindingly neon promise
too early in the morning
to read properly.

So as I sit here in my '95 Fiat,
watching the rain pincushion my windscreen,
Ill consider becoming the cannonball
you always want me to be.