The Moose

Too please in the morning
tasks, I was assigned to mow the back nine
on the Automaton of orange plastic steel.
The morning is filled with diesel, pine, sand traps and
the occasional squirrel storing for first frost.

Tees and collars are a mixed patch work
of city businessmen and the local mountain golfer lost in
conversation over small town what-have-yous melting in scenery;
there was never need to keep score.

After nine comes ten or so I have been told since youth,
and after nine collars morning shave it was on to ten tee
when we encountered one another.

As the fish surfaces for air so the moose
parts the pines to greet man.
I turned off the machine and on my great
lifeless throne felt helpless in brilliance.

Confused in your velvet royalty
I mistook you for cloven footed demon
emerging from the wasteland to trample
myself and rampage the grass,
yet there was only standing.

A red ancestral memory rose
only to be suppressed by urgency
of duties. For you are the oddity on
this land of Kentucky bluegrass.

As the metal key turns
I once again become cyborg.
Pleased and eager to finish morning tasks
I lowered the orange blades and in a
brown bound our moment ended.

Email: Travis Cashey

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