The Slow Hiss

The rain was coming down,

a steady drum on the roof,

then a kind of muted thump,

a rhythm out of proof.

Something off,

a subtle drag, a heavy feeling

in the wheel,

a weight that wouldn't heal.

Pulled over quick, the curb was wet and dark.

There, just under the street lamp's hazy arc,

a small flat glint, a cold, hard head.

A nail, sitting in the rubber bed.

And the air, it sighed,

a soft, persistent hiss,

leaving me with this,

a small, sharp thing,

a whole day lost,

what it might bring.