A picnic poem

I keep imagining the sun above some clouds

under which have grown some trees

with limbs that reach expansive, shady lengths

And under those lengths is a table

upon which is, among other things, mac n' cheese

and beside which is a vat of vodka-lemonade

or plain lemonade, either way

People populate the picnic bench

Aron's there Sara's there David's there Lauren's there

Graham is on my lap, pulling a paper plate

this way and that

We eat and laugh and drain the vat

The only thing dirty about the scene is that it's fantasy

That and the actual dirt under our feet

Below the picnic table, the clouds, and the shade trees.