When my sisters worked nights at Yoken's
Sea Food Restaurant, once each summer
my mother took my brothers and me out to eat.
We leaned from the Rambler's four windows;
everything green rushed in. The wind seemed to suck
color from leaves as they raced along with us, driving
in from the beach. "Thar She Blows" in quotes in neon
blazed in the spout of a whale festooned over the lot.
We were hushed by white linen on tables, the wait staff,
and art on the walls, the "Moby Dick Contest" in full swing.
My sister's entry hung large in the lobby, a dramatic
harpoon poised over the maitre d'. That summer
my brother climbed to top place in scoring for Rye
Little League, I danced my solo in Tchaikovsky's
"Swan Lake." We stood under a swath of oils on canvas.
Ruddy lobsters clung to platters over our heads.
We were a family, the stars of our own feature film we were the artists, the patrons, the summer help.