We're kissing each other under a huge porch
There's a family reunion being held in the house
that's attached to the porch, and the footsteps
of a huge and disorganized family
move around in casual rhythms
on the boards above them.
The gentle sound of drinks being poured
merges with the happy sucking of our lips.
Is that your family above, or mine
Perhaps they belong to neither of us;
we certainly don't belong to them.
But somebody's uncle looks familiar:
he's walking down the steps onto the lawn,
with a dumb grin on his face, drunk.
He rips a car door off of some other relative's sedan
and props it up against a tree. We've stopped kissing
and we giggle in delight; he begins to paint
the door with a brush and some cans taken
from the garage. He paints the scene on the porch
with every member of the family as standing crocodiles,
sipping drinks from glasses that have been cracked
by their huge sharp teeth. And a landscape
of mushroom clouds with tree branches
lurks behind the porch railings.
On the other side of the yard, a radiance--or maybe
a crowd of blonde children--is crawling up a tree
and crawling down a tree simultaneously.
Long yellow whiffleball bats fall out of the tree
and make a mellow clatter on the artificial grass.
Either the children are picking them from the branches,
or they are falling from the rectangular heaven that (our?)
drunk uncle has painted on the window of the car door,
above the crocodile family. The flesh of the children
is turning into butter; the butter covers the bats
and they turn into snakes, snakes that slither
through the artificial grass and turn
the green blades they touch into real grass.
Sometimes one of the snakes will raise its head
to peer at a car-window heaven and to see
if the contents of the porch are human;
and we share an orgasm whenever that happens.