Sitting by the pool
my father and his friends drink
cheap beer from cold silver cans
I fetch for them from
a white igloo cooler.
My small bare feet make wet sounds
on the pale coral-colored patio,
mini splashes for each tiny puddle
in its pock marked surface.
My mother walks back and forth
between the kitchen and through
the sliding glass doors,
getting chips and dips
and anything else the men require
as they watch the game on TV,
drinking their bicentennial cheer
with a mixture of slow sips
and large cool gulps,
regulating their temperatures
from the warm Florida sun
*written last April for National Poetry Month, in memory of my father.