WHEELS WAREHOUSE Poem by Borben Vladović

Rings of old tyres were heaped
like small loops on a wedding cake.
Two early-matured boys
were leaning on the door in
quite unsuitable suits as if in mourning
for those discarded
swallowers of the motorways and kilometres.
From the shed and the yard
the sharp smell of vulcanisation was spreading
and old strings have been repaired and tuned.
The boys are in charge of the elasticity and firmness
and now they are standing again by the entrance
alert but absentminded watching
the clouds and the people passing by
waiting for judgement from the rich linden tree
will they be condemned or set free
by that fragrance, and so they are turning
their noses towards the jury