There is something depressing about Barbeques in parking lots,
Maybe itís the long shadows
Or the gray oil marred pavement
Or the longs shadows against the oil marred pavement,
But there is still something depressing about Barbeques in parking lots.
Maybe they arenít really Barbeques at all.
A Barbeque should have grass,
And a grill that hasnít moved since the last season,
And staticy music played through an old radio,
And long benches, with long tables
And far more people than there is space for,
And the family dog,
And the neighbor's family dog,
And burnt left-overs for the dogs to get into,
And a subtle darkness with men and fathers sitting on the porch drink the last beers,
And smoking their last cigars,
And mothers herding young children out of the grown-ups way,
So that they can cut the corn off the cob just they way you like it.
And the one uncle who still plays guitar, even if itís out of tune,
And fresh clams raked up that morning, with hot sauce that father told you to use,
And hot sauce thatís hotter than you like,
And hot sauce you use anyway,
And soft grass in deep shadows hidden under trees, where the noise is softer,
And the family cat who looks at the whole event with such mock distain,
Because you know, he really does want to play,
And family friends whose names you donít remember, but youíre happy theyíre there anyways,
And that one song from that radio that father and his friends sing when it comes on late at night, even thought most of them donít remember half the words,
And a night that still smells like the living of day,
And the soft sounds of little toads in the wood, calmly peeping,
And biting bugs that itch days after,
And those little yellow candles that keep the bugs away but you know donít really work,
Because there are no bugs in a parking lot.
Then what is really depressing about a Barbeque in a Parking lot?