Slow Puncture

That dull, soft hiss

I heard it first

walking from the door.

My boot on asphalt, then that sound.

Like air let out a long, slow sigh.

I bent down, felt the flat curve

of the rubber, dead weight

against the curb.

And there it was,

just there,

a glint of metal

half-buried in the tread.

A silver head, small and bright,

pointing up, a tiny declaration.

No rush now, no schedule.

Just this, and the slow, steady

drip of air leaving.