vignette / a refreshing drink in '55

it’s a heat wave.

the spikes of the Sun jab my sweaty back

smeared with spent grass blades pin-pricking

my tortured 12 year old skin.

I’m mowing the backyard as I was told to do,

and not with a snazzy sit-on, rattling across

the craggy plain which is mostly patches of dirt.

this "Hercules" takes muscle, of which mine are still

figuring out their reason for being.

––with every forward thrust the mower's fierce blades

rotate like the fatal wheels of Caligula's chariot.

I was young and beautiful when ordered to begin the chore

transforming me into a sticky mess of sweat, spent grass, and dirt.

––now comes my sister, three years my elder, young, pretty,

and cool as a cucumber, offering me an ice-cold orangeade

from the great white Frigidaire in the kitchen.

I loathe her standing there, prim, proper, and managed with care.

––she was told: "bring the glass inside the moment

he's through drinking"!

when I am, and after she does, I begin mowing again,

cursing both our adolescent stations in life.