Summer. 1956. Day One.

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Summer arrives 

quiet as a wheat field nap.


Outside


a goldfish does pond laps


like grampa at the Y.


A block away trains deposit

crumpled men with bleary hats


as Adolph, the German shepherd on the corner


yelps his marching orders like a commandant


and slender-tailed mourning doves eavesdrop on telephone wires


I’m four


wearing beach flappy shorts


bare-chested and blonde

balancing on an invisible high-wire in our living room


a tiny Wallenda in socks.


Ghosts hold their breath


as the Platters sing “Only You”


on the Dumont  television.


The parakeets


Pepi and Gigi


flutter and twirl


like they’re on American Bandstand.


Sunlight


sneaks in like a cheating husband


striking the framed painted portraits of my sister and I

like a Hollywood Klieg light


My mom marches in


for the ceremonial changing of the 


living room upholstery guard


smelling like instant Maxwell


a top note of aldehydes and bergamot


and a just vanquished Viceroy


with a lipstick tattoo


which has taken a Johnny Weissmuller swan dive into


the pool of a Bone China cup


With a magician’s flourish


she whips off the winter-grim slipcovers


bellows Voila! 


and steps aside to reveal


Hawaii


with hula-dancers 


ukulele strumming natives


and more pineapples than 


the produce department at Key Food


And just like that, 


for the next three months


we will live in the Tropics.


Days will promenade by

at the dozy pace of a parasol twirl


traffic will tumble like tides 


ice cream bells will chime


asphalt will simmer


bikes will transport us 


like a Tom Corbett rocket 


baseball announcers will become our favorite professors


and forever 


for now


will feel like a very real thing

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