Tires

Drive far enough on four and before longYou're sure to see one, hanging by a ropeFrom the strongest branch of the oldest oak.Think, as you roll by, of the father whoOne evening rolled it downhill, one hand toSteady it, the other to brake. One night,Driving home from work, he felt the tiresTwitch 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 leanedAgainst the shed, cupping its eyebrow-shapedMeasure of rain, until his boy grew oldEnough to begin to want whateverThat feeling in the stomach was. MaybeThat was ages ago, the boy a manNow, his head and tires bald, his parentsDead, the penny lost in a Mason jarOf pocket change on a bedroom dresserIn the city, while out here the tire stillHangs. The realtor knows better than toCut it down. It adds something to the placeThis young couple is trying to decideIf they can afford. To her it seems toSuggest a future. To him it seems toSay they can. As for you, it makes you thinkAbout tires and ropes, the purposesThey can be put to, things that have nothingTo do with leaving or leaving the world.