That Boy’s Got Soft Tires | Carlyle R. Phelps

That Boy’s Got Soft Tires:

“That boy’s got soft tires—bless his heart.”
Not enough grip to carry intellect beyond the start—
Livin’ on the chopping block of profession and art—
His mind squeakin’ by like a busted rusty cart.

“I’m trying to meet you where you are.”
You must be exhausted traveling that far—
To pull a u-turn and downshift your car—
To backtrack to life’s equivalent of a dive-bar.

There’s nothing left to equivocate—
Failure’s persistently skulking at the gate—
Rolling in momentary lapses to humiliate
The mundane repetitive spate.

40 years behind the wheel, but still at the start—
Presumptions about talent, success, and art—
Earned value could fit in a tiny, plastic, cart:
“That boy’s got soft tires—bless his heart.”

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