Tires

oh our poor tires

Gerald Slaby
12/18/07

poetry

tires

the car, forever creaking, its steel
muscles slamming
at holes, heavenly emptiness of
nothing—
breaking its bearings
loosening its nooses
forever nature’s slaves

the tires are tiring
stretching, its friction smelling hot
The holes are its master, hereafter
nothing that the auto can do

The battering, the brushing up
against large holes, languishing in
the water;
It’s silent in its crying,
Carry on, if you must.