BY D. R. JAMES
First published in The Raven’s Perch. Copyright is held by the author.
After Dad’d spur, I was sure to bray:
seasonal’d torture, splintered holidays,
angered, soured, wound, baked — geothermal’d!
Pending over my shoulder, poised, contained,
his roused snout. Eruption’s not seeming a
sensible move — eruption a futile
move — I’d belt comebacks to the engine’s growl.
I’d botch windrows I’d later have to rake.
I’d shake a veiled fist, suppress effusive
fury. I’d have lots of lawn remaining.