We have a picnic.
Open the umbrellas,
sit out on the deck.
fire up the grill:
hot dogs, brats, burgers,
dill pickle slices, mustard.
I make a trifle in a rectangular glass container
that is attached to a pedestal:
layers of strawberries, angel food
cake, whipped cream,
blueberries–red, white and blue.
My husband notices the significance,
whistles something patriotic.
The grandkids lick every last smear of
whipped cream off their plastic spoons, run
down the gravel path too fast, one loses his shoe,
play on the tire swing until dusk. 
House sparrows are still chirping, chimney swifts are swooping.

I fall asleep on the couch,
listening to PBS,
a show about World War II:
women code breakers, a decoy town
in Seattle where fighter jets are made
underground, Mussolini, 5 or 6 officers
in Hitler’s elite killed for smuggling Jews
to the safety of allied countries.
All of this significant—
Who is watching?

I doze off–
     good night,
          grandchildren,
good night.