A Brand New Schwinn by Wayne Lee

Marty pushes his dad’s old power mower
along the shoulder of Lakeway Road, six blocks
to the Lutz’s house. I lug the gas can, so heavy
I have to switch hands every half-block or so.
We’re a pair of scrawny 10-year-olds out to make
some real money this summer, enough for each
of us to buy a brand new Schwinn.

The lawn looms large as a little league ballpark,
the grass calf-high, uncut since October, still damp
from yesterday’s downpour. We don’t know how
to use the choke and the engine floods, but finally
we coax the old machine to life. The blades clog
often, and we must pause each time to wipe them
clean. The grass catcher fills to overflowing
every pass across the yard, and one of us must haul
it out to the compost bin beyond the back fence.
We run out of gas halfway through the morning
and have to walk to the Texaco down the road
and pay 50 cents to refill the 2-gallon can.

Four hours later, blue jeans stained green, arms
speckled with cuttings and faces flushed sweaty
red in the midday sun, we push the mower back
to the gas station on the way home and squander
our entire 75-cent profit on candy and Orange
Crush. We slouch against the brick wall out front
and decide to abandon our enterprise, then hatch
a new, can-t-miss plan to try our hand at shagging
balls from the rough at the nine-hole golf course
out by the lake.