by Barbara Brooks
Old tires are buried in a playground, or tied
by rope to a tree limb over the river
just waiting for a swing. Ã‚Â My tires were worn
but lasted long enough to take you to the vet.
Filled with begonias, some are painted white, jagged teeth
like the ventricular tachycardia on your EKG.
Others are tossed into a ditch to collect rain water
and mosquitoes. Ã‚Â Piles burn uncontrolled, the tumor
pressed on your heart. Ã‚Â In August two-a-days, football players
step through tires snaked out on the ground.
With new tires, I carry you home.