Measured in Hours
My grandfather’s John Deere lawn tractor
was a 420 model with special modifications–
a steel platform bolted onto the front end,
big enough for three five-gallon buckets of mulch,
and a suction hose that feeds into the companion grass catcher,
secured by two blaze-orange bungee cords from Hostetter’s Hardware.
It’s still there in his shop across from the house.
When school let out for the summer,
all I wanted to do was mow with Papa.
I can picture him now–always smiling,
puffing on a cheap El Producto or Dutch Masters cigar from Sloan’s Pharmacy.
I never saw him on the tractor without one,
as though it were a key to start the engine–gasoline and a cigar.
Mother would always worry–It’s too dangerous…watch those blades!
My sister wouldn’t go near it–but I was never afraid.
Papa was right there with me,
invincible together as we mowed our way
around oaks and sycamores.
The 420 had to be repaired this summer–
A new drive shaft, the mechanic said.
Wears out after so many thousands of hours of mowing.
A John Deere’s life isn’t measured in miles like a car.
It’s measured in hours.
There’s a gauge for it.
Never noticed it until after he was gone.
In the green of the dashboard,
Marking time with Papa–
A meter of incalculable love.
An MFA candidate at Arcadia University, Philip Andrew Lisi resides in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, where he teaches English by day and writes poetry by night alongside the ghost of his cantankerous Wichien Maat cat, Sela.
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