Michigan midsummer's eve
Of campfires and pine smoke
And flimsy folding chairs
Dad rescued from a junk pile
Roasting marshmallow on branches
because mom is too cheap
to spring for sticks or metal forks
Spiky, unsanitary and single use
But good for mass toasting
and beating of brothers
and launching fiery sticky projectiles
for no particular reason
Wielding flaming marshmallow torches
Like maniacal villagers raising hue and cry
scaring shrieking little siblings
and getting scolded for waste
On toasting styles, to plunge or not to plunge?
coveting Grama's patient golden perfection
but usually too lazy to slow roast
incinerating in one fell swoop
Burning fingers and tongue
on ash-dropped incendiaries
Never knowing which is best
Blackened crunchy shell or gooey white innards
On recipes, S'mores sometimes
just marshmallows mostly
mom is also too cheap for
whole dollar Hershey bars
Stubborn marshmallow prints on hands
resist scrub, remain till Sunday morning
Surreptitiously sucking fingers in church,
Reveling in campfire Saturday night
Epilogue:
The poet lacks the lexicon
to convey just how magnificent
the universe of memories made
on a Michigan campfire night
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