Jan/Feb 2006 Poetry

old tires

by Stanley M. Noah

old tires

drenched in rain
behind my dad's
tire shop, now

discarded after their
40,000 mile journeys
and stacked high in single

rows, paper thin tread
and flimsy enough
for a 10 year old

to climb up and
inside, then peep
upward into the night sky

at twilight like from
a giant telescope,
my own private universe—

and circle-pools of trapped water
breeding mosquito larvae
all waiting for the burning—


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