Four PSI Low

The ticking started on the exit ramp,

a steady metallic tap

against the salted slush of the road.

I held the wheel tight as the car

drifted toward the guardrail,

begging it to stay straight for one more mile.

Under the flickering tube light of the Shell station,

I knelt in the grit.

There it was: a roofing nail,

wide-headed and silver,

sunk deep into the black rubber.

The air hissed out, a tiny steam

smelling of hot friction and the coming cold.