The Family

They traded in history for the colors
The colors for the rare books
The fishing trips were memorable
The creek beds dry, from the accident
They were the kings of the subdivision
That hadn't been subdivided
Yet, though it was scheduled to

They built a border around the woods
Turned it into a ridge and a valley
The vacation days piled up slow
They went to Arizona in winter
Switzerland in summer, the city never
The city was for government services
And that part of life was over

Today they each sit near umbrellas
Thirty feet away, twenty-five if you're tall
The umbrellas cover the darkness
On the longest Saturday of the year
Sunny like someone declared it and dared it
The umbrellas are different, one is in the suburbs
The other two in a magic city

They boarded a plane in the ancient world
Got off near where the seagulls ate garbage
The seagulls looked like tiny people
Flapping and surging, ignoring the jet fuel
The family lived in a room in New Jersey
Then two rooms, then three, and finally six
Suddenly it ended, black sheep strewn

June 16, 2007