Politely rejected poem, slightly revised, I'm reclaiming the title (they picked, I wrote, but I think I can do better)

Red Car in the Future

in a grease spot,
your tongue slithers down my leg
my oil, sweat
Red nail polish flecks your mouth,
my toes
Years miraged on Number Hill
fading in the light
thin wings on the grill
Welcome signs,
Atomic power
can’t seduce dry beds.

 “The Big Lost River is our Legacy”
Bald tires spin
onAmerica’s blacktop
Our vision to clutch clouds in our mouths
is unscheduled as a storm.
Let it carry us.
The sky is cloudless.
It’s been sunny for months.

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