Picnic Sunday


A picnic is death’s interlude;

A combustion of sandwiches

And armpits.

A brazen storm of barbeque and beer,

A thoroughfare to the madhouse.


But my walk on the road,

Beneath the pines,

With only the company of crows,

Is an anthem far stronger

Than this raucous chorus from hell.


Ted Goodell




2 thoughts on “Picnic Sunday

  1. Dad, this one is a classic. When I think of your body of work this one always surfaces to the top. It is the one that represents you most clearly to me. I LOVE this one. . . and you!


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