If a Bicycle had Breasts

If this bicycle had breasts, your car would rape it.
It’s how much your olds mobile fancies
rubber spinning eye candy- plump, swollen and round.

If this bicycle had breasts, it would re-pump new law lies.
Re-Erect red light stop sign sighs.
Peach fuzzed and sirening, sirening, sirening by,
your open open window.

Under the blanket of high summer skies,
wheels caress white-bordered lines.
Malleable liquid filled clouds bustle and hustle,
illuminate a rush with their two-big-bright-head-lights.
Thighs push calves forward to a migration of bounce
and the fabric of this breast’s dress bump, bump, bumps over
the "look left!" and "look right!" signs.

En Route, the breasts on this bicycle
consume a red swoosh.
Entering the peripheral vision of its right nipple,
while the double deckered masses pass by
and the bus driver leaves,
just enough hollowness, for this tit to fit,
sucked dry and tired, but riding on
between the curb and the ongoing rows of hollering dicks.

This bike is swirving codes of conduct with
the blushed basketted swallowings,
of a belly full bent on rules of the road.
Out of breath and inept to the mobile
schisms, which make motion sickness,
weigh down my handlebars.

This breast pedals back.
Breaking to the blissful ignorance,
in intoxicating, un strapped lapse,
this breast pedals back.
With the firmness of flesh hugging earphones;
lights green and this erogenous zone is-
panting forward,
past you.

I wish this bike had it’s own breasts,
so you could car-pool your eyes off mine.
Take your Oldsmobile’s headlights, which refract light off my shine
and flash your shift stick in another direction please.

My breasts on this bike will wear no boundaries or bra,
just a cleavaged kind of will to overtake your automobile cars.