borrowed fire

In the rockets’ red glare
a people looked on, silent,
fourth of July of the year of no return
the sea, the beach, the unawed crowds
frozen in coppery etchings

knowing each fair flower’s flare
was only their due
inheritance for a continental
thievery boldly dared
by others.

A little girl’s the only one
to bubble in the majesty of war,
while we who’ve lived this long
sit bathed in the same booming lightning
that Baghdadis saw blooming
one happy morning
when last we were fools.

At the crescendo there’s laughter
at the swanky curlicues and paisleys of money
and the strobe lights relentless extravagant
hammering the sky, mocking
our ordinary end.

7/3/07