They run shops
like captains at sea,
yet can’t understand
numbers of a sidewall.

“Give me the cheapest,” they demand.
An expensive 10-ply is required.
Not caring, they repeat their desire.
Weight means nothing,
until something snaps.

Specs are mere whispers
in a storm of pride.
Load ranges? Alphabet confusion.
Tread depth? Proof they failed math.

They float on confidence,
anchored to nothing.
As I hold the line—
voice calm,
hands bruised
from lifting truth
they refuse to carry.

Yet, even in their fog,
a light flickers:
a question asked sincerely,
a thank-you without sarcasm.

It’s then I remember—
I’m not just selling rubber.
I’m sowing trust
on roads they’ll never thank me for.