First Born's Ache

The phone buzzed, then vibrated still.

Her voice, a thin wire stretched

over wind, the sound of her breath

hitching, a cold, sharp thrill.

Flat tire, she sobbed. Again. Always

something broken, something torn.

I pictured her by the shoulder, worn

and small, in these blurred days.

My chest felt tight, the old familiar knot.

The car keys, heavy in my hand.

This weight, this pulling, understand?

Another thing I haven't got

the strength to carry, but I will.

My own tire, perfectly fine.