The summer hum of lawnmowers
and squealing children
catch in my throat—
today is Dad’s birthday,
in three days, it’s Mom’s,
forever parents to us, always children.
Was it so simple then,
darting at dusk after fireflies
to collect in our hungry jars,
Dad and Mom somewhere
in the shadow of the porch
Guarding over us?
Or the long hot drive
to Beach Haven, transfixed by Billboards,
praying the sun
would stay strong
and steady, strong and steady
like the man at the wheel
who took us crabbing
on his one day off
and stopped for a Schlitz, or two or three,
on the way home?
Or, tumbling from the sleepy
car, charmed to see Dad typsy, carefree
(for once), hauling the basket
of crab-loot into the house, while Mom
‘tsked ‘tsked him for riling
us up, chasing us with
hypnotized crabs before
plopping them into the boiling pot?
And didn’t we escape,
from the mess we made,
to sweeter dreams (for once) in our bedroom-attic,
crab-juice dribbling happily
from the corners of our mouths,
leaving Mom to clean up shells and
wipe down the greasy stove
after coaxing our father to bed?
Yes, for a moment or two, it was.