The Harrow Plow
Each spring it sank a little further down
beneath the apple tree where we would stand
and pitch those sour globes to feel them burst
against a bat we could barely swing.
Convinced it was a spacecraft run aground
no matter what my cousins said, their hands
held up to show streaking stains of rust,
I climbed atop and imagined wings
on either side to captain its decay.
Hologram commanders relayed the psalms
from girls on planets doomed, penning pleas
for heroes from the stars. My proton rays
blew aliens apart, just like my palms
which split the day I bashed that wreckage free.