The last time I had a flat tire, I took a picture. It’s still in my phone ready to be deployed should I be disastrously running late for something I can’t be understandable tardy for.

Years ago my wife got a call from work on a morning we’d forgotten to set the alarm. She darted awake and off the cuff railed about an Alabama Power truck blocking our drive. She’d be there as soon as possible, she said, and I heard sympathetic sounds from the other end. I’m not that quick. I need a plan. You should have a plan too.

It’s a close up shot showing only the tire and the road without any seasonal flourishes like golden leaves, sleet, or sandaled feet. Next time you get a flat, take a picture. Heck, if you see a stranded motorist, pull over and take one. Everybody has a phone and will have called a friend or relative so you’re in little danger of getting roped into actually helping. For POETS Day, an excuse to be late doesn’t help much. You want out for the day and a flat tire just means you won’t be back in from lunch or whatever for a few more minutes. Also, sending a picture unprompted is suspicious. It’s better attributed to another.

Pull up the picture when the time is right and tell your boss a daughter/neice/grandmother just sent it and needs help. They’re a ways out, but sitting safe in a diner or something. You can just make it out but by the time you get back… “I’ll make it up Monday. You’re great for understanding,” and out. Matinee, ball game, bar? Up to you. Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday.

But first, a little verse.

***

I hadn’t thought of Robert Bly since college. I took an honors English seminar led by a New Aging professor focused on his manhood reclamation manifesto, Iron John: A Book about Men. I can’t remember the professor’s name, she taught non-fiction creative writing and I suppose the thinking went that as a renowned poet, Bly would serve up examples of poetic sensibilities pressed into argumentative prose service.