Smooth Skin

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Smooth Skin

 

Off Old Cork road, as you turn into Midleton, rest

stacks of  life-saving re-treads.  They wait, un-like us

who have ‘Buckley’s Chance’ of reliving their youth.

 

The largest lay prepared, size neatly stacked,

image-ready, resigned, proudly age un-marked

claiming their fair share of the dumping ground.

 

Smaller circles know their corporate place, are thrown

haphazardly because they lost their grip – has-beens

swallowed by take-over tyrants, larger than they are.

 

In the distance, discarded tyres lay stop-piled high.

Unlined, rubber circles, retired, aged-old wheel-rings -

job complete, have reached the end of their final journey.

 

Tractor workhorses, content to rest, farm miles-tired,

worn-out, knowing they don’t count because the speedy

             don’t care – don’t notice how many lines are missing.

 

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003

(Whilst waiting for new tyres to be fitted, my man challenged me to write a poem.) 

agedcar tyresholocausthumanitypoemskinyouth

◄ Breakfast at Garfunkle’s

Red Lipstick ►

Comments

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Jason Bayliss

Sat 16th Mar 2019 12:24

Brilliant, and it made me laugh because much like KJ I was thinking whilst reading it, "I wish they could re-tread me." As ever great writing.

J. x

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Frances Macaulay Forde

Sat 16th Mar 2019 11:26

Thank you for the 'likes' Rich, kJ, Jon, Kate and Dorothy.
Also for the comments, Kate and kJ.
Much appreciated.

Note: I must apologize for adding the 'holocaust' tab though; this edited version doesn't include the stanza which refers to it, as a far wiser poet than I (Esther Morgan) suggested it was not needed.

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kJ Walker

Sat 16th Mar 2019 07:18

Fantastic stuff Frances.
I've been feeling like a worn-out has-been of late. Maybe all I need is a retread.

Cheers Kevin

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Kate G

Sat 16th Mar 2019 02:16

Wonderful Frances, a challenge executed with elegance. Somehow these discarded old tyres still offer us insight into our humanity - thanks to your astute observation.

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