Waiting
for fireworks, people with blankets
litter the summit over the Great Lake.
We
walk through an artillery field -- the flares
they
ignite. And under a
crescent bridge,
we straddle a stone ledge beside the yacht club,
ink lake beneath us. Above, color bursts the sky.
Jake
prefers the fireworks that fall like like
meteors, but suspended from parachutes,
are slow to vanish.
are slow to vanish.
When
a firework warehouse exploded in Dayton, Ohio
all
the engines in the city could not extinguish
that
rainbow, like the aurora borealis, the 82nd
parallel where Jake's U.S. ship received
a
medal for surpassing the Soviet record.
Bored
with this patriotic display, three year old
Louis
repeats, "Daddy, what if you fell in the water?"
Shooting stars, emerald glitter...
"Thunderbirds, Daddy, thunderbirds!"
(No, Louis, those
aren't jets you see twisting
their
way to heaven, but firebirds.)
Color
spiraling toward us, horns of yachts
in
the harbor, "Money," Jake screams.
"Millions of dollars falling from the sky!"
Exploding into color.
Once
in classrooms we faced the flag, hands pressed
to
hearts, reciting the pledge. Men signed
a
papyrus leaf with a quill dipped in India ink.
Pointing to a dead smelt floating on the lake’s oily
residue, little Louis shouts "A fish!”
On
the steps above us a lawyer in cream-colored suit
smiles handsomely and says "I smoke only a toke,
then
throw the joint away. But
not while I'm in
uniform." He laughs,
white teeth gleaming.
Take
my hand, Louis. On the east
coast, ships
bedecked in red, white and blue motor this day
Enthusiasts raise flags, wave red beach towels.
"Wait, wait! The
grande finale!" Jake yells.
Little Louis
lights his sparkler.
My Poem c 1999
No comments:
Post a Comment