what distant planet

i smell chicken on the grille.
seasoned just right,
filling the summer air
with burnt meat.
my quiet neighbors
are standing together,
holding hands, like no one does.
the baby is on the picnic
table, her pink arms wiggle
in the smoke, but happy
in her portable crib.
they love to cook out.
they love
to stand over the fire
and watch the coals grow hot
and white. they poke at the chicken
legs and wings,
the breasts, turning them
together.
hardly a word passes between
them. the baby never cries.
i wonder sometimes where they
might be from,
what distant planet.