parking (penta)meter

I sing a song to parking meter tick.
Talk all you want, but gasp when I insist.
Reverse the rhythm, let the meter stick.
Insert the quarter slow, should you resist.
Your breath becomes so real, the touch is stone.
Quotation marks appear each measured click.
Soapstone sliced soliloquy, you drone.
Carve the words in chiseled granite brick.
A tally of the times I touch your kiss
in tick and tock of timed arithmetic.
Precise enticing bites of frosted bliss,
measured out in mouthfuls, lick by lick.
Anxious in each passing metal mark,
Tracing out the lines, obliged to park.