Poetica 37

I drive carefully into the compound to avoid any unplanned blowouts.
You guide me from the outside and I’m in the right space.
I try to tip you, gratitude for the now raised tipper.
You say you want all of it, the promises and the debts.
I drill down deeper, you want the rubber to hit your roads not just bypass.
I can’t remember the right word but it rhymes with fracking.
Just one more inch and rhythmically approaches the predicted gusher.
As I hit your core, I finally get why you call it..
Baby-oil.

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