Tonight in Africa a sip of lemonade
put me on Argonne Drive
in a 1960’s summer.
I am little.
I am skinny.
I am serious.
I drink from a small plastic cup,
secured with ease by stepping on the drawer handle,
pulling myself up,
swinging one knee onto the linoleum counter,
the upper cupboard opened with one hand
the cup grabbed,
and a jump back down to the floor.
There is no one in the kitchen but me.
I gulp the lemonade,
gasping between swallows.
It is so cold and so good.
Then I run down the back stairs,
crash through the screen door,
and continue my easy six-year-old summer life.