Tread

The click-click-click against the road

stopped being a pebble.

The sky is the color of a wet sidewalk,

maybe snow by five.

I found it in the driveway.

A silver head, flush against the tread.

I poured a little water on it

and watched the bubbles rise—

small, frantic gasps of air

escaping the rubber.

I was going to get the lumber.

Now I’m just crouching in the grit,

watching my own breath

and the tire getting softer

against the cold, black stone.