It is a summer evening
in 1948. My mother and father 
are in the backyard
of the little duplex they rented.
Summer evening 
in St. Louis. I have yet
to exist but nonetheless 
I know that two hamburgers 
are on the grill, and the beer
is cold in the humid dusk.
A dog barks next door, 
my father turns the burgers, 
my mother goes in
to set the table for two
and make a salad. There’s
more beer in the fridge.
They don’t even have a TV.
Nobody does. In the kitchen
that does not include me
the burgers are great, 
and my father says something
that makes my mother laugh
so hard that I can hear her
in my backyard tonight
in Cleveland, where thanks
to them I exist
at the grill, a beer
in my hand, a dog barking,
my wife in the kitchen
making a salad.