The Polished Head

The road is speaking in a metronome,

a silver tick against the damp concrete.

It’s counting down the miles until I’m home

or stranded on a dark and narrow street.

I see it now: a galvanized screw head,

ground flat and bright by miles of high-speed friction.

It’s burrowed deep into the rubber tread,

a small and sharp and permanent affliction.

The air is sighing out through blackest lips,

a slow collapse I cannot stop or stall.

My morning schedule starts to lose its grip

until there’s nothing left to do but fall.