The Fourth

The spring jet of sparks blew forth
on the Fourth in the heat and haze.
The sun popped bashfully behind
their whitish blaze, and laughter
boiled briefly in the air for safe digestion,
drew coarse and livid smoke clouds into existence.

The clouds were whitish, hinting distractions,
and all eyes watched the searing flames rise,
never fingering a bucket of water even,


they were so pretty

The winds' warm arms
clutched the smoke, and rushed it
into my iris', dirtying them yellow,
rushed it to all of us standing beside the parade,
an enormous Return To Sender stamp on the package,
yet it seems only I am complaining.