Summer Picnics

Drying last night’s rain

From my plastic Adirondack chair

This morning,

I recall all the web-seated aluminum lawn chairs

You would weave into new furniture

When dampness rotted the material

Over the years

And the plastic chairs you had us tip

Against the patio table so any water would run off

And you could sit down when we came outside.

We have been through a lot of lawn chairs over the years.

All that time outside:

Despite the rain.

Wind.

Humidity.

Greyness.

All those picnics despite these conditions:

Drying chairs, preparing food, icing the beer and soda.

All the laughter, jokes, gossip, old stories whose endings were no surprise.

Now, as heavy clouds badger me into going back inside,

I am thinking of which books I will bring to the patio

This afternoon

And wondering how long

Until the deck will be dry if I run a towel over the boards.

Nobody will come today.

I will sit alone with so many poems and myths

And memories and two dogs who will growl at the chipmunks

Who live inside our walls and go this way and that with impunity.

We don’t mind them;

They own the place.

And the sun will come out

And I will read

And think of you

Though I will not call

Because it seems you never can hear me

Even after all this time.