by Timothy Lindner

We discuss divorce
while alcohol bubbles dribble

over our plastic cups, frothy
like the root beer Aunt Gail

once ordered us to sop up,
when she could still remember

what a mess was or who we were.
We sit together in shade

at our parents’ splintered picnic table
as heat drips from the tips of an umbrella

and rolls down around us: the kids’ table,
near the sandbox that left grass flat

through the fall, our world, with castles,
race cars, footprints and holes.

We played at the kids’ table,
while jokes of alcoholism and lack of love failed

to reach our ears, and now, coolers form
the same squares of injured grass that endure

the seasons. Our skin burns while sun dries
the sides of sandcastles as they crumble.

Timothy has earned a BA in English Literature from Ramapo College and an MFA in Creative Writing – Poetry from Fairleigh Dickinson. He currently lives in New Jersey. Timothy works as a Content Operations Manager at Wiley, serves as Poetry Editor for Serving House Books and reviews poetry collections for The Literary Review.