6848. THE FOURTH OF JULY

THE FOURTH OF JULY

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.