Try being an old tire. Sit atop the heap
of worn tread mounds south of Modesto
near the cattle holding pens
of the slaughter house.
Check your habits, measure your bio footprint.
Waste not want not, or so they say.
Some people are not made of rubber,
most have traces of gold.
Ask yourself, what is it to endure imperfection?
Who has not pointed out parsley smiles,
corrected an upturned shirt collar,
forgiven a misspoken word?
Just confess it: you replace people
the way I replace old tires. Yes, well,
there certainly are plenty of people
in the world to love in a lifetime, son.
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