The tire shop
Nolensville Road, Southern Little Mexico.
Get your tires replaced, your heads replaced
rolling around like flats. My god the nakedness.
Thirty schoolkids a day in a hot sun. No nudity
for any freaks reading. Just mothers and sons.
Strolling, instead, in a run to the next bus
struck by calling their padres for measure.
Where are you?, like the lily-white queer’s boy
standing dumb-eyed drunk or not on a road
to high homogeneity the whole lot might value.
One day!, the day no one can quite count up to,
licking their fingers like salt pounds for payment.