14-point inspection

on this warm morning when sunlight feels
more golden than ultraviolet
I find the convenience of a used tire
shop on the corner, where doo rag
cornrowed man (who wears work-dirty
jeans and a limp) studies my slow leak
with surgeon dexterity

his hands comb the phrenology of ridges
searching for a source crack or nail hole
there’s a cadence to his movements:
clockwise turn, hose, wipe, inspect, repeat
finding nothing, he rolls my tire in the garage
for a consult, my focus shifts

to the crowd of men posing as patrons
their generic shoptalk is hindered by
my presence, each one pivots in turn
as if they had drawn straws
some nod and smile good morning
eyes lingering, wandering down
and back up again, almost meeting
my eyes to find impatience