Fireworks

Say you like them, run towards the slap

of light.     
Say you don’t mind

not knowing the man behind the boom,

oh ordinary Oz.

Say it’s okay we’re in the dark

about how much it costs     

to blow up the sky.

Say it’s both kinds of America,

the blowing up     
and the bluster,

the rapture of a crowd,

the renders and voyeurs of rending.

Love the red, white, and blueberry

cakes, the bare-chested pecs

peeking from stars and stripes overalls.

The sky, ashen since March,

plumes of mottled smoke,

of wildfires.  

Everyone loves a birthday bash,

blowing out a cheery inferno of candles,

making a wish.