Steering

My grandfather taught me to steer well before

my legs were long

enough to reach the gas.


He gave careful directions

over the roar of the hay baler,

mower, hiccupping tractor engine or

mallet of excitement

pounding against my tense knuckles,

white on the dark,

finger-worn wheel.

I’d get stuck steering in a constant circle,

kicking up sand with every go-round, while

he’d patiently wait for me to find a solution.

I never could.


I loved the smell of dirt

turned up in rows,

the screws, bolts, gasoline-smeared rags

and occasional soda bottles

bouncing in rusted compartments by the seat

and the rattle of tools from the blue tool box,

nailed down near the step,

more than the freedom

of picking which tractor path

to twist down,

or which soft rows of dirt to take.

These were Papa’s things

that smelled like the ground

filtering through his nine fingers.

I couldn’t picture him anywhere but his tractor.