picnic

Your suspicion
(mingled with the bottled milk
and coffee from the Thermos,
’cause mother always thought the milk would curdle)
taught and hardwired by now
drifts to the left, outside the stage
(mother confident in tweed and chiffon,
sets the mugs and plates for eating)
and so you wander through
maleficent meadows
(the cracker and cheddar broken in your hand)
where the monster meditates
(perhaps on your plastic cup)
and waits to, at the very least,
corrupt you.

She stares ahead, as through open windows
(as everything is set,
so shall order be instilled)
but holds back her own secret knowledge
(more than spoons and knives,
where the napkins are,
and plastic bowls for potato salad)
that life is more than taking steps.

You look up and think
(you take another bite)
if clouds were marshmallows,
would snow be cotton candy?

(Image originates from http://www.shorpy.com/node/16404. I took a picture of the image on the computer screen and adjusted it to my liking. Visit Shorpy.com for thousands of interesting and amazing photos, spanning over 100 years.)

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