Small Spike

A rhythm changed,

leaving the lot.

Not quite a thrum,

but something else it got.

A soft, insistent

click, then a hiss,

a small complaint,

that something was amiss.

I knelt, then saw it,

flat head, silver gleam.

A roofing nail,

dreaming its wrong dream.

Stuck in the tread,

a tiny metal tooth,

just sitting there,

a quiet, ugly truth.

Like something left

to fester, small and keen.

Now the slow leak starts,

making what was whole

unclean.