Vern can't look at his neighbor's farm
without thinking of cocaine. The rows
of furrowed dirt raised into symmetrical
lines puffed and leveled for lettuce
run toward the horizon. It drives him back
inside to a full-length mirror flat across
two green plastic milk crates in the garage
where he pulls a razor knife from a tangle
of chrome tools and lines out his day.
He's sniffing like he's got a late February cold
numbing drip of snot running his throat
and he's cool on all the back pasture mint green.
But the small John Deere needs new plugs.
He's armed. He's hunt ready as his dog.
Sockets. Wrenches. Purpose.
With powder in his pocket
he's going to give that god damned tractor
the biggest working over of its miserable life.
without thinking of cocaine. The rows
of furrowed dirt raised into symmetrical
lines puffed and leveled for lettuce
run toward the horizon. It drives him back
inside to a full-length mirror flat across
two green plastic milk crates in the garage
where he pulls a razor knife from a tangle
of chrome tools and lines out his day.
He's sniffing like he's got a late February cold
numbing drip of snot running his throat
and he's cool on all the back pasture mint green.
But the small John Deere needs new plugs.
He's armed. He's hunt ready as his dog.
Sockets. Wrenches. Purpose.
With powder in his pocket
he's going to give that god damned tractor
the biggest working over of its miserable life.
Tune-Up by Jeff Knorr
| r.kv.r.y. quarterly literary journal fall '08-winter '09 poetry |