For the Kids

Sitting on the edge of a summer scene
so my cigar smoke doesn’t bother anyone,
watching the kids flop in the bouncy house,
the invasion of uncles pulling their legs,
the aunts: an admiring seashell blocking the driveway,
and a council of grandparents
seated in beach chairs on the lawn.
Now that the sun is setting,
nobody has to take breaks inside,
though the AC is still on.

As the sun slips lower, the grandparents
will blink off, one by one—streetlights
showering their spots with shade.
Uncles and aunts alike will fizzle from sight,
ceasing their dreamy orbits like fireflies,
who do not know it’s night.
And then we will be the next to go
when the sun sets completely on this summer scene,
banding with the elders’ darkened glow,
making our presence felt with shadow.