The Hiss, Or, A Slow Collapse

Morning. Routine, you know. Same old,

until I walked out, felt the air cold,

and saw it, glinting there, so small,

a silver prick, to make my whole day fall.

Right in the tread, not quite the side,

a perfect placement, nowhere to hide

the truth of it. A slow, soft sound,

a breath escaping, no longer bound.

That tiny hiss, a whispered wrong,

it sang its song, all morning long.

The rubber, dull, a heavy weight,

deflating slow, sealing my fate.

And I just stared, at that round head,

my whole routine, suddenly dead.

A little thing, that stopped the world.

My day, by one sharp point, unfurled.