Slow Leak

There’s a rhythmic thumping beneath the front seat

that I tried to ignore for the last twenty miles.

It sounds like a heart that’s forgotten its beat,

or a person who’s lost all their folders and files.

I pulled in for gas and I saw the silver head,

a three-inch carpentry nail buried deep in the tread.

It’s been worn down to a shine, almost like lead,

by the miles of asphalt and the things that I’ve said.

I’m losing air. I can hear the soft hiss

coming out of the rubber, a quiet, tired sigh.

I don't have a spare. I wasn't ready for this.

I just stand by the pump and I want to ask why

everything I own has a way of collapsing

just when I think I’ve got speed on my side.

My patience is thin and my temper is lapsing.

I’m just waiting for someone to offer a ride.