Picnic Ground

The path cut through, a shortcut

behind the hardware store, past the chain link.

Sun was high, pushing down

the shadows of the marble.

And there, between the dates

that screamed too close, too soon,

a red-checkered cloth unfurled.

Two of them, laughing, sharing

some kind of sandwich.

The wrapper, slick with mayo, flew

from a plastic basket, landed

under a chipped angel's wing.

Crinkled like a bad joke.

No reverence, just hunger.

Just breath, pushing out

against the names cut deep.

I walked on, trying not to stare.

Pretending not to smell

the mustard, or the sudden green

of everything that keeps on growing.