Grandpa and the Boy
By Jeff O'BrienGrandpa's bald pate gleamed through
the blades of his gray hair
that he lacquered back with Dippity-Doo.
Exclaiming 'Dad burn it' for each jerk
that didn't ignite the Lawn Boy,
he handed yanks to its strings
while kicking it twice with the toes
of black shoes. The third pull
propelled Brigg's and Stratton
to sputter and smoke, feeding clippings
to a filling sack, clogging the iron throat
as he trudged through the carpet grass.
Hunching, Grandpa reared the Boy
on its haunches, grinding the clumps
into the mulch with his hands,
reaching into its teeth to force
greens down its throat. When it was
satisfied, he let it purr. He emptied
the sagging cloth into plastic as
the Boy spit Bermuda and St. Augustine
on the T-shirt that sponged the sweat
from his bear chest. Nitroglycerin
kept it beating, surgeons cutting
bacon drippings from clogged arteries,
carving his legs to splice passages
on smoking lungs. His legs now
circulate the yard a circumference
at a time, limping behind the coughing
Boy who hacks piles, sapping horse power.
