An Ode to My Thin-Treaded Tires

Our budget has now accounted
for your replacement
for one full year.

In which I have neglected,
in flat out utterness,
to call a shop.

Or Wal-Mart.

A full year in which I have surmounted
every spat of birdshit on the pavement
as though it were a school-zone speed bump—
with perfect attention,
the kind God reserves for his favorite sparrow.

All for fear of the blowout(s)
I expected at each turn.

O tires, tires, we’ve had an honest year!
Clinging our way on this earth.