The Campout

The next poem I write will have
lawn chairs circling around a burning fire,
with piles of wood sitting to the side
watching gooey marshmallows rotate on
pointed sticks, slowly turning to a golden brown.

The next poem I write will have
Aunt Barb's famous chili awaiting
the arrival of grumbling stomachs
and salivating mouths; laughter of
family -offering long, strong bear hugs-
eager to reminisce with stories
of worldly travels to Italy

The next poem I write will have
tents, large and small, set up
along the perimeter of the camp
sight, with glowing flashlight walks
to the bathroom, and potent bug spray
suffocating any possibility of being attacked
by blood sucking mosquitoes
But there won't be Mountain Dew.
It wouldn't be the same without Grandpa.

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