Spirituality at the Tire Center

by Daniel Pravda

ARETHA FRANKLIN serenades Regis and Blondie.
The soldier sleeps on her elbow.
he anorexic reads a wrinkled Esquire.

The dude in dreads and Reeboks needs
cellphone detox. Bridgestones will have to do.
The coffee maker drips and hisses, kisses the Coke machine

and the stained trashcan. State inspection due.
We preach suspension, steering, and balance.
We do transmissions too. At our store you

must be 100% happy or we're not. Rachel Ray
needs way less sugar. The male/female
handicapped-accessible bathroom door
lays open like a Venus flytrap. Phones ringing,
cashiers singing 225R17, would you like alignment?
The LTX offers 35% longer life
on gravel. Her phone hassles her awake,
the soldier makes promises to her landlord, takes
two seconds to fall asleep again.

The gumball machine humbly suggests
calling Lowell The Hammer Stanley 459-CASH.
The dude rubs the cross hanging below his Polo pony.
All answers lie within
the Sports Illustrated Super Bowl Heaven edition.
Roadside hazard insurance not included,
snickers the greaseball mechanic's Marlboro,
if you're in such a hurry to meet
your divine designer, why you buying new tires?

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