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Parallel
January 15, 2010
I will never mow the lawn
without remembering sitting
on each of your scarred knees,
sneezing from the grass twisting in the air.
The scent of gasoline,
dripping from the can
that’s sealed with rust
and leftover oil.
Four wheels ride the track
on the parallel crests you make on the grass.
I scramble over your marks,
thinking of you ride your John Deere,
with your black suede cowboy hat
and old spice cologne.
The grass layers my boots
while it twists in the air,
as I ride parallel to your tracks.
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