Is there anything special about waiting in line at Les Schwab?
Bly said recently in the introduction to an anthology that we’ve had enough of the mundane domestic in contemporary poetry these days. He’s probably right. Why write about a shop full of tires? Don’t Write about the people that come in.
It’s a proper swath of the local folks growing here. A nice slice of the strata, with every class represented. On welfare or retired with millions and a huge RV. A college student with a backpack and hoodie as well as a grey-haired vice president in a European-made suit. Subaru driving professor-woman and Dodge Caravan driving mother-woman. IT professionals and M.D.s. Racing non-professionals and truckers. Dirt bikers, dirt bags, dirt movers, and dirt chemists.
Our city is too large to walk across, but too small and rural to own a single sizable public bus. Atheists and unitarians and Trinitarians – what we all really have in common is four tires spinning underneath, tread wearing thin.