Rest for weary tires

No, keep this.
Keep this and look
at the ceiling for
leaks, for missing
asbestos - like the
kind that is not
kind to souls,
bodies alike;
they scorn advancing -
storms, rain,
shelters,
but still dry.

This resting place,
it is wood, sodden
and green -
running in and out
with orange, a trial
size of peanuts, salt
plastered together
before leaving.
I stall before tossing -
please and fake
disgust while
it exits the parking
space, so plain.

Now it's dark,
now it's later, sitting
silently the prattering
on about darkness,
clouds pop to left,
right, faking a block -
pass that car and dare
a trailer.
Dare to brake this
thunderstorm,
drenching faded,
careless grass.

© 2013 Larry Ingram