Samuel Cheney
Who Shall Be Made Like Unto Grass
I was a lawnmower but it always took too long.
I never took to it.
I wore cargo shorts with the perfect pocket for my discman
and blew my ears away listening to Rancid.
My dad made me don blue-lensed athletic sunglasses
to protect from flying shrapnel. I’m sure
it wasn’t always the hottest day of summer,
but I’m really not so sure.
I never wore a shirt.
The part I liked best was being seen.
I can still smell the grass and the gasoline.
Maybe it was all that time to think
in bright daylight I couldn’t handle—
I would get so angry.
Nearly pulled my damn arm out
every time I yanked the starter cord. Maybe
I just hated that no matter how
bad you failed or how well you did it, cutting grass
was a never-ending second chance: do it today,
do it again. Maybe that was like God’s love
back then.
Night Drive After Rodeo
Everything in slow motion.
Everything glowing from within.
There’s nothin like a good rodeo,
grandpa said, Too bad this wasn’t one.
Everything down the valley black.
But the mountains more black—
my sister and I lean back in the backseat
and watch the ridgelines and the stars pass.
I remembered this when I died.
The slow roll of reflectors on the road.
Blue stars on a black sky.
Bright night-lit construction on the roadside.
Everything easier during the daytime
is harder at night.