Climb onto the spider-webbed cushion of the tractor seat,

stretch legs to touch the floor as grimy as a burning barrel,

gold key dangles from the ignition, silver wire ring so tempting,

must not touch or turn or flip on the lights and blink blink them,

must be sure to leave them off, avoid my father’s wrath of finding

 

a dead battery, but I am the Tractor God and I make light appear,

not once but twice, blink, blink, recklessly then, a mistake

like death, I press the grey bruiselike welt of the tractor horn

button, it shrieks in pain, wonka! wonka! my father comes

running, Tractor God no more, only a child crouching on the floor.