My Car Squeaks

My car squeaks when the steering wheel turns.
 Not in protest, I would say, it’s more open,
  in anticipation, in almost whispered delight:

Let us go, let us turn, let us wind ourselves
 together with the road and the wind and the
  motion of getting along, on the go, we—

Moving forward together, again, left and right together,
 with a little mousey gladness born of a lion’s
  heartthrobs; to run, to chase, to roar.

My car makes quiet noises, and I long to turn
 to you beside me; “Did you hear that?” I
  wonder, a tidal wave on the shores of my soul.