picnics settle in the cracks of forgottenness
the way photographs used to live in shoeboxes
or photo albums tucked into the junk closet
of a spare bedroom (serving as emotional reflector tape
should life bring you to your knees too often) 

strangers join as friends who become family
wait for hot dog skin to blister
time passes as
everyone talks politics… weather…the differences
between creamy and vinegar-dressed slaw
then (if you’re lucky) someone tosses a giant
bag of marshmallows on a table
sticks are gathered…chocolate is melted…and
everyone’s sugar raises or
you top off another round of horsehoes with a brownie
a spoonful of banana pudding
a cup of fruit salad

the point of it all arrives a week later…or
the next year at a funeral or weddin’ when you
remember that one human (that good nut who
wore a bun’s worth of chili sauce on
that new tshirt and fed those people’s dogs the
cold weeners) and
lordy… lord… lord…how good it would be to
hear those laughs
again