I had this idea that I would
buy a set of four Firestone tires
for a car.

They were so round,
I wanted to run my hands along the treads
   once before I drove on them
   once every day after.

I could feel their desire to be on a car
from across the lot of the dealership.
Their desire was like sunlight
or being watched from behind. It was
a contagious longing for Montana highways
and Route 66, and
just us. Running.

I spent weeks avoiding that side of town
in my head
and hanging out
in the coffee shop
across the street
from my tires
on that side of town.
that very exact side.
I sat with my back to them
and they pulsated behind me
like luminescent larvae.

Eventually, I became friends with a tire salesman.
He asked me over for a few beers after work.
I hung out a little at the Firestone place
after hours, me and the salesman got drunk
and kissed a little bit.
I could feel the tires
watching us and I hated them, because
they were going to break my heart
even though I was defiantly
making out with the tire salesman
right in front of them, when I could be driving
to Montana
which is real
unlike
drunkenly making out with a tire salesman.

Months went by. The tire salesman doesn't understand
why I am always far away when we are together.
I ask him, timidly, to tell me a little more
about the tires he sells. He tells me they are gentlemen.

I am twenty six years old.I am twenty six years old.
I do not have a car.
I don't know how to drive.
I do not believe him.
Not for a second.

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