Stomach growling I return with food
Picnic table scratches my palm
Stretch across the checkered cloth
For the ketchup.
Summertime smells of charcoal and burgers
Cloud my nose; I lick my lips
The sprinkler ticks like an unwatched bomb
I grin at this group of faces
SQUEEZE the red covers my burger
As a shot rings out and all is silent
A white streak folds like a paper fan
Picnic table clears as we all run to see.
Translucent face reflected in his pool of ketchup
I'm not hungry anymore.
**freshmen year
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