The Swing

 

 

The old worn tire

rests quietly against the far wall

just below the dated calendar

whose picture was just too

alluring to be covered over

by tomorrows –

 

Miles of tread long gone

spread thin along asphalt trails

and scraped along curbs

tucked deep into history

as a bookmark wedged firmly

into the binding of life –

 

It is as if age itself

were leaning there against the wall

void of bent rim and

deflated of all adventures

it’s last hope of usefulness

holds out a mighty limb

in the front yard.