Pugmill Knives in Play

There's a slow leak in my tire
that makes me do my part
keep up my end of the bargain
for continued transportation.
When the warning light comes on
gentleman that it is
a race ensues to the nearest gas station
in hopes that there's an air pump.

Inside I interact with foreign men
to get four quarters
always having to purchase an item
mostly chocolate or a ginger ale
so they can open the register.
No gauge is true, I judge by eye.
Once the curve is straightened out
I verify with the absence of the yellow indicator.

I've done it thrice in two weeks now
perception trained to scan for air signs
that pop up like blue cars
the opposite of liquor stores and mailboxes
when needed.
I find a compressor tucked next to a dumpster
where I didn't look hard enough last week
and note my steady progress.
Oh, if they could see me now...

I'll keep it this way for awhile
though my mechanic owes me a favor.
The structure, the routine
the diligence of duty
and presence of the pugmill
as timeless as a woman
in a navy dress, white polka dots.
All around are knives in play.

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