After the Picnic

On a Sunday evening
in July, when the company on the porch
lost their faces to the creeping dark,
we could still hear their laughs and arguments,
while we sailed around the yard chasing fireflies
with Mason jars in our sweaty hands.


We knew the grown-ups were drinking beer
the more they drank,
the louder the laughing got.
Aunt Joanne, who sat quiet for so long,
began to giggle and agree with everybody.


The ice chest sat by the garage.
It had after-picnic slush inside,
but it still chilled the few cans of Coke
that were swimming with the cans of Bud
and somebody's something, wrapped in foil.


Bullfrogs flirted in deep "ree-beeep" voices.
Crickets sounded like excited sopranos
in raunchy, but pleasant, chorus.
Then, Uncle Wilbur's boy, Justin,
claimed we could catch a frog.


He was wrong.

It was sticky out, like "don't touch me" hot,
and none of us boys had shirts on.
We played hide n' seek in our bathing suits,
tried to scare the girls anyway we could-- until Gramma screamed:
"You boys leave them alone now, or I'll get a switch."


Gram didn't like beer.

While he was smacking mosquitoes,
Fat Uncle Ted's lawn chair caved in,
and that set off a chain reaction
of women's screams and men's laughs
when he landed in a heap.


I wish I could have seen that.

They say he was embarrassed. . .
that he got sulky and wanted to go home.
It set off a landslide of leaving,
and the next thing I knew,
I was sitting on the porch with Gramma,
listening to small talk, croaking bullfrogs
and chirping crickets.

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