Fourth of July

The neighborhood cringes behind windows

washed in magnesium light, streamers fizzling

above the shingled rooftop of the apartments

across the street where teenaged boys

with mannish arms throw cherry bombs,

bottle rockets, wings and spinners, snappers,

chasers, fiery cryolite wheels onto the avenue.

Paint flakes off the flammable houses

and onto brave square plots of white grass.

Rain-deprived vines sucker the shutters.

Backyard dogs tear at the dirt, cats

run flat out, their tails straight up.

What's liberty to the checkout girl

selling smokes and nuts, greenbacks

turning her fingers to grease? The boys

insist on pursuing happiness, their birthright:

a box of matches, crackers on strings,

sparklers, fountains, missiles, repeating shells,

Roman candles, Brazilian barrages.

We peek through blind slats to where they stand

around a manhole cover, the gold foam

of Corona bottles breaking at their feet,

young up-turned faces lit by large caliber

multi-shot aerials. We suffer each concussion,

the sulfer rush that smells like fear, each dizzy,

orgiastic display that says we love this country,

democracy, the right to a speedy trial. We're afraid

to complain, to cross the spent red casings

melted on asphalt in the morning's stunned

aftermath, to knock hard on any door, and find them

draped like dead men over the couches, the floor,

hands clasped behind their heads prison style,

shoulders tattooed, dreaming the dreams of free men

in summer, shirts off, holes in their jeans.

Source: The Book of Men (W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2011)