Slow Air

Walked out to the car, thinking

of coffee, the day just starting to rise.

Something was off. The way the wheel sat,

a little low, a little flat.

Then I saw it, small and mean,

the dull silver head, barely seen,

buried deep in the rubber's dark curve.

A tiny spear, designed to unnerve.

Just sitting there, a silent thief,

pulling the good air out, a slow grief

for plans unmade, for what might be.

A small, hard fact, confronting me.