Thinner Air

The engine died and the world rushed in—

the crickets, the neighbor’s AC, the dark.

I walked around the back,

knees clicking after twelve hours

on the loading dock.

The rhythmic ticking is finally over.

I found it buried in the third groove,

a galvanized nail hammered home

by three miles of hot asphalt.

The head is worn to a silver mirror,

polished by the road,

holding the breath of the tire

by a lucky, jagged thread.