Lunch in The Summer

after Stephen Duck 

The Lord is a painter.

Already he’s retired certain colors—

set them aside to crumble

like the amusement park

on the edge of town,

gathering thistles. 

But we still have green

in its many forms—

on lawns and boulevards,

under the noontime sun.

How I love lunch in the summer—

how good it feels to be allowed,

by law, to experience opulence:

sitting back in your car

in the Burger King parking lot, 

food laid on your dashboard,

you become like a thresher 

beneath a shady tree 

three hundred years ago, scythe

nowhere in sight. Or, eating 

a Caesar salad you enjoy 

the cool feeling of the porcelain plate 

against your wrist and fingertips

as you graze it on the table.

Then it warms from your touch

and turns the temperature

of everything else.