walking home from Mason
down gray Tyler Street
I pass grass strips and
gravel pits and tall bare
winter trees.

my boots find notches where
road has come astray
likely kicked by some other foot
on some other nothing-day.

and now a car goes past
a Subaru with one flat tire
thumping through a pothole
flaked off the street's weak cast.

I watch the Subaru go,
license plate dusted and bent
back lights staring with a dim red glow,
and I almost run to catch
that broken old car, tell the driver
about the flat tire and license scar.
but I don't and I can't tell why--
maybe it's because my throat
is too dry, maybe my legs are
too weak, maybe whenever I open
my mouth I never am able to speak.

so the car keeps going till it
rounds a bend, disappears entirely
from view. I don't know, maybe one day
I'll see again that old Subaru.
and maybe then I'll be braver,
and maybe I'll help you too.