THE SHED - JULY 4, 1954
Our cousins would come
from Visalia to swim
in the summer heat, play
baseball against a barn door
backstop, grape canes waving
fresh green leaves beyond
the charred corrals my sister
and I damn-near burned down.
Howling sirens, engines ending
in Granddad’s yard. In the dark
I heard talk: my father’s voice
among the firemen, my mother’s
look I didn’t answer. We played
hard and waved the flag, sliced
cold red melon, cranked peach
ice cream in the evening
after hot dogs and potato salad,
then climbed to the shed roof
that leaked long beams of floating
dust when we took turns urging
the manure spreader’s wooden
tongue to talk, engaging brake
and gears as we imagined freedom.
On the shed’s shingled peak,
we’d jockey for position –
lookout for nails and splinters!
and beside trays of drying raisins,
watch rockets pop and shower
colored fire over orchards
from deep within dim lights of town.