Kristin Robertson

He buys a tractor, sap-green 
and bright as a poisonous frog, 

and mows football fields 
behind local schools, 

eats his lunch on bleachers. 
Pimentos out of the jar. 

Never a jazz cat or catcaller,
he claps for the pep girls, 

the majorettes, their batons 
like deadfall. Before he won, 

he lived for chainsaws. 
Woodchips like atmosphere,

ticker tape or snow. Now 
he buys ticker tape and snow 

at the ticker tape store, 
at the snow store. Still 

he breathes in the rows 
he's cut, the thirty yard lines. 

Gas-soaked grass acrid
as the armpit of the frog, 

the frog alive and wondrous 
and full of poison and alone.