Friday, July 3, 2015


Here in this weather I can break out my heart
with you; we will laugh at a mirror and cough 
at a flag, and another, and another too. Then the
blamed firecrackers will go off : catfish kids and
their stupid hordes, lighting fires with fingers that
explode. If only they knew themselves better.
And all that hasty noise  -  like gum in a keyhole,
like a wire pin in a car's ignition. I should have
known this all before  -  adolescent girls with
budding breasts, crazed boys, too big  -  of a 
sudden  -  for their holiday pants. It's all a big
show, one fated to amuse yet fated to pass.
Here again, look at this all, it's the Fourth of July  -
all those tired fireman sitting around bragging, yelling
they're better than cops and better than robbers too.
Not to speak of the EMT crew from around the corner.
Why battle this segment too? Go get drunk, that's all you 
do. It's the smattering of lucid wives I'm after anyway.
I guess I've had too much of this; I can't remember much:
being fourteen and taking a bicycle I'd found on the curb
to race to a Merril Park fireworks fest  -  a thousand people
grand, most laid on their backs, on the big open field
in the center; to stare up to watch. Blazes churning! Pop!
Oh what days I otherwise lived in stir. My prison break
was in growing up and getting out. Forever, but,
I take what glory I can in a calendar pail of days and dates;
now everything is gone and there are fences everywhere, the
kids are disappeared, the old fireman are dead, and even
Mr. Cigaturra, that crazy cadger back then, is over now and 
gone. They tore his house down about two years ago.
Hey baby, it's the Fourth of July.

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