In a pert scarf over pin curls and waves,
my mother, in seersucker capris,
set tables for the deaf club picnic
on the grounds of Koepplinger's Bakery.
Back behind the loading dock, ladies
snapped red-and-white checkered vinyl
as if making beds for food, for catsup
and mustard, relish in squeezable bottles.
Our fathers played baseball, huffing along.
They skinned their knees, pulled muscles,
bellied up to barbecues and coolers,
grilled hot dogs and chicken breasts,
swilling beer, leering at the teenaged girls
they hoped were watching (they weren't).

We settled in for potato salad. The kids fought
over deviled eggs, threw water balloons,
chomped on wads of bubble gum.
Babies slept in strollers, the sun turning
their hairs even whiter in its glare,
its rays bouncing off the scoreboard,
where Koepps and Visitors finally faded
as evening fell, mosquitoes swarming.
My parents lingered under one last light.
Sad to say good night, they signed and signed
to anyone still standing. The parking lot opened
its gravel to the stars. I picked up a pebble,
slid it down in my pocket, climbed onto
our backseat and stretched out to wait.