Past porches, the night's parched wind unfurls,
peels layers from the spindle legs of girls.
Danica's out with Amy, Jill, and Jess.
The downtown spotlight spins in white distress.
I walk to Gyp's, the brown-lit, paneless bar,
her moon face smears in every passing car.
Lights clench and whistles tear. I order shots,
and build the inner fire of sticks and knots.
Soon I'll hear the wheat field, darkened farm
where once I hid. Blue corners tight with arms
and leather, flinches.
When the hours grow young,
I'll see her blank thighs soundlessly unstrung.
Smell the wind's blood-knuckled fists and dirt.
The girls go by, scissoring in skirts.
"A Family On Their Lawn One Sunday in Westchester, N.Y., 1968"
Just what his father was, a wild-eyed kid,
is difficult to envision now (Dad covers
his eyes, tired from the sun, Mom's in the mid-
life crisis bikini). Their son discreetly hovers
above a blue inflated pool in the yard,
leans down to gaze at his own small face.
His parents, lying long in chairs, are guards:
their bodies turned away to smaller traces
of comfort: stuffed ashtray, the full glass
on the table in between. Their weekend bliss:
the country club tan. Their weekend pass:
him running the yard. They do not kiss
or touch, but once they did. Dad eyeing Mom's hips,
some years before the boy's name crossed their lips.