At the Picnic on the Weekend of the Village Festival
by Michael Simon

Imagine being the one from elsewhere
surrounded by corn twelve feet high.
Each story, each local your friends
recall, for them, brings to mind families
numerous as stalks, row upon row.

Each turn along the crowned
blacktop roads that look one
like another, has a family name.
Each road has a pattern of potholes,

bridges to avoid, trampoline rail crossings
that wiggle your Jell-O for half a mile.
Maybe you gaze into an oak,
hear the word thunderstorm,
wonder if you’ll see a storm,

but skies are blue. You focus,
like you’re waiting to see what a pitcher throws,
maybe the catcher will call for the heat,
you wonder what monkey business
the pitcher has up his sleeve.

It’s been a long prairie afternoon.
You could swear your host just said
piranha aardvark but you get up
trusting in the likelihood that he said,
The burgers are ready!