It’s a hot afternoon smack dab in the midst of July,
in the era of Golden Elvis records.
People file in and out of the big yellow house
with open shutters on the windows
and the lawn crawls with small town folk
eating spun sugar and looking for a good time.
There is a roasted pig on a long table surrounded by all the fixin's
and a watermelon slashed and quartered,
displaying its marvelous guts for all to enjoy.
On the front porch people keep time in white rocking chairs
while a big band busts out notes to a boppin’ Carolina Shag.
It’s the 10th anniversary party for Rosa and Beau
and even the cicadas are out in full swing.
The sun lifts up the skirt of her dress,
billowing warmth heavy through the trees,
and the breeze smells like magnolias blushing.
There are little girls in lace dresses prancing on stick ponies,
hair ribbons snapping like small kites behind them.
The little boys chase each other with sparklers,
blowing on kazoos, knee socks up,
hair tousled like the roots of their souls.
Two high school sweethearts are tangled together
in the front of a 1952, blue Cadillac convertible
with flat whitewall tires,
parked in the tall grass of the green summer lawn.
At first glance one might think the car grew roots there
a long time ago, as a home for young lovers to meet.
An elderly veteran wearing nothing but cut-off jeans
rides a large tricycle down the street.
His wrinkled skin says he doesn’t give a damn
and there is a story beneath each fold.
Ride on, Mr. Veteran, sir.
Hand on my heart, no jokes,
we salute you for your service.
Someone sings You Are My Sunshine
between mouthfuls of strawberry shortcake
and the day inches past with pizzazz.
A flock of geese flies in a perfect V overhead,
as if to vouch for their vow in the growing-violet sky.
They will remember this, Rosa and Beau.
Even when the champagne runs dry
and the world changes as it does.
They will remember this.
The way everyone came to celebrate their love
and bet on their happiness like flowers bet on spring.
The camaraderie a memory of life
so worth rejoicing.
The birds that stood witness,
perched, plumed and proud,
like guardian angels on the terrace above.