Tires

this is one of those days
where you catch every red light
and no one seems to be paying attention
while they're driving

you woke up late and did
nothing you planned for the day.
at your menial customer service job
every customer had a stick up their ass –
 where's this, why’s that, what's taking you so long?
 don't you know how to do your job?

all you wanted for lunch was
an ice cream sandwich
from the crappy cafeteria
and the asshole who came in
two seconds before you
took the last one.

and then, you couldn't even
be a bitch about it
because it was for his four-year old son
who was crying
and asking about his sick mother.

the one thing you look forward to –
getting off of work.
it's Friday; you're getting
the hell out of dodge,
YES!

driving late is wonderful;
no traffic, no red lights on the highway,
no people bitching
or taking the last ice cream sandwich.

but there are flat tires.

this is when the insane laughter starts –
at least you have AAA on the car
and this time you aren't being pulled over
by the cops for speeding – they stop
to make sure you're getting help.
wow.  maybe a little faith
in the system after all.

of course your donut tire is flat too.

and all the while this is going on
the only things you think of are naturally
not related to any of that;
things like why aren't there
epic poets anymore?
I mean, there's a Milton out there somewhere,
there has to be.  but the subject matter,
well,
Milton has the monopoly on Paradise,
can't exactly do that one again.
really, poetry, at a time like this.
that's about as ridiculous
as the fact that even at this moment
I still think of you,
wondering what you're doing,
wondering why it is that the universe
seems fit to keep me separated
from you, from my destination,
from my sanity, from my...

tires, really. they're metaphorical.
because on a day like this
metaphors are a must – much
easier on the mind than clichés.

you don't have to burst my bubble –
just my tire.

and this poem is about tires
about as much as Paradise Lost
is about someone missing
every red light for two weeks.
it's about you.  everything is about you
even though it's my tire,
and you weren't here
and you didn't know.

it's cold outside
and the cops were nice.
so was the triple-A guy
and my freshly-pumped donut
gets me back home perfectly safe.
I've wasted the gas (ain't cheap)
I've wasted the time (ditto)
and I'm back where I started, except
now I need new tires,
I have to brave the red lights again,
and I'm thinking in lines –
thirty miles forward
and thirty miles back.

it's Christmastime, and
the blow-up snowman
at the apartment complex has fallen over.
again. at least there's a close
parking space, and the apartment
is slightly warmer than it is
outside. the moon shines brightly down
and I wonder what it is
that I have done.

by Jennifer Johnson

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