The Neighborhood on Labor Day
Last shrimp on ice. Daytime moon
in stereo. Streamers sing “Happy Birthday.”
There is popcorn and dancing, but the parrot
wants a beer. The guests throw balloons,
which fall slowly, like insomniacs.
The husband is bored but does not stare
out the window. An ice cream truck
asks childish questions. The children run
in and out of unison, of barrows, of wagons,
of swings. The wife is a woman.
The air aches: almost green leaves, almost red.