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 Whether 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.