Son of the bayou long since come north,
outrunning the law’s white heat for Firestone,
Willy the tire man arrived Wednesday each week 
all southern candor in his barrel-chested baritone
booming out, “Ain’t no rest for the wicked,
'cause them wicked gotta bring a paycheck home!”

Forearms thick as axles, he’d sort the retreads,
tossing them like ringlets at some country fair
despite a heart attack that landed him on delivery,
“Tired still, but not re-tired is what I’d call it.”

One summer day, he found me there
alone and hammering at a rim’s locked ring,
unable to break it down, the screwed-in valve stem 
waiting like a fuse for the tire to explode:
“And sail you clear to heaven! Mercy, young fella!
What in God you think you doin’!!”

                                                            as I froze, 
each of us imagining the head akilter, thin neck snapped, 
silence floating in the garage’s raftered dark,
as Willy emptied out the tire before driving off,
heartsick and weary, haunted the way home.