Tires
Drive far enough on four and before long
You’re sure to see one, hanging by a rope
From the strongest branch of the oldest oak.
Think, as you roll by, of the father who
One evening rolled it downhill, one hand to
Steady it, the other to brake. One night,
Driving home from work, he felt the tires
Twitch on the snowy road. In the morning,
He tucked a penny into the tread groove.
Kneeling down, he could see Lincoln’s whole head.
He burned three and kept one. For years it leaned
Against the shed, cupping its eyebrow-shaped
Measure of rain, until his boy grew old
Enough to begin to want whatever
That feeling in the stomach was. Maybe
That was ages ago, the boy a man
Now, his head and tires bald, his parents
Dead, the penny lost in a mason jar
Of pocket change on a bedroom dresser
In the city, while out here the tire still
Hangs. The realtor knows better than to
Cut it down. It adds something to the place
This young couple is trying to decide
If they can afford. To her it seems to
Suggest a future. To him it seems to
Say they can. As for you, it makes you think
About tires and ropes, the purposes
They can be put to, things that have nothing
To do with leaving or leaving the world.