225.75.15
She texts you
the above
to say
it means
nothing
to me
just sent
so she
can remember
her tire size
at the dealer
and you
put it at
the top of
my notebook
to prove
that poetry
is everywhere
and imagine
all the dates
you could
be evoking
what happened
in 225
or 1225
for less work
evoke 75
Gates Street
where you used
to live
or your
fifteen
years
of girlfriends
for starters
(better sounding
than fifteen years
since first
having sex)
you envision
of poems dedicated
to your girlfriend's tires
hoping the numbers
only go up
according to size
(or is it just according
to brand
you haven't
owned a car
in years)
or maybe
a series for
every new
part for
your girlfriend's jeep
up to and
including
a new jeep
your thoughts
run on and on
(much like
you think
your sentences
ought to)
and you
wonder
when will
all this
ever
begin
...
and then
you write
about
yourself
in second
person
which is
always
a sound move.
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