John Grey
Tractor Part
When you were young,
your father took you to another town
where he was to buy a part for a tractor.
You were anxious but excited for the world outside.
You rode in the station wagon,
confident in your father's big hands
on the steering wheel.
The countryside changed
but whether woods or farms,
gas stations or silos,
they seemed to step aside for him.
Slender trees lines lined the road like guards.
You could have sworn their upper branches saluted.
He pulled up to the tractor store.
You followed him in,
gaped at all the red and yellow monsters,
the overstaffed boxes and shelves, stacks of giant tires,
even chains and ropes hanging from the rafters.
Your father and the salesman
talked business at the counter
while you wandered, lost in all the machinery.
Your little heart ticked.
Your tiny brain opened wide but couldn't take it all in.
Your miniscule muscles lifted you high enough
to look into the cabin
of a sparkling new John Deere.
"Look out!" Father and salesmen screamed at once.
Your father was worried you might hurt yourself
The salesman was concerned you might scratch the paint.
No harm done. They both calmed down.
On the ride home,
a brand new fuel injection pump
bounced up and down on the back seat.
If you weren’t strapped in,
you would have too.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Perceptions and the anthology, No Achilles, with work upcoming in Big Muddy Review, Gargoyle, Coal City Review and Spoon River Poetry Review.
Tractor Part
When you were young,
your father took you to another town
where he was to buy a part for a tractor.
You were anxious but excited for the world outside.
You rode in the station wagon,
confident in your father's big hands
on the steering wheel.
The countryside changed
but whether woods or farms,
gas stations or silos,
they seemed to step aside for him.
Slender trees lines lined the road like guards.
You could have sworn their upper branches saluted.
He pulled up to the tractor store.
You followed him in,
gaped at all the red and yellow monsters,
the overstaffed boxes and shelves, stacks of giant tires,
even chains and ropes hanging from the rafters.
Your father and the salesman
talked business at the counter
while you wandered, lost in all the machinery.
Your little heart ticked.
Your tiny brain opened wide but couldn't take it all in.
Your miniscule muscles lifted you high enough
to look into the cabin
of a sparkling new John Deere.
"Look out!" Father and salesmen screamed at once.
Your father was worried you might hurt yourself
The salesman was concerned you might scratch the paint.
No harm done. They both calmed down.
On the ride home,
a brand new fuel injection pump
bounced up and down on the back seat.
If you weren’t strapped in,
you would have too.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Perceptions and the anthology, No Achilles, with work upcoming in Big Muddy Review, Gargoyle, Coal City Review and Spoon River Poetry Review.