sunday cookout

the yards
are full of smoke, ripe
with
seared
meat, the coals lit,
going black
to white.
the drinks are in hand,
the balloons and eggs
are colored
pink and blue,
green, orange. a red
one floats away.
music plays.
I can almost hear
their voices
from my window, saying
things,
all the things
I used to say.