The sundown bursts through the porch slats and the rings of the ladder, hanging atop the back fence as the fireworks sizzle and report, the field a series of percussive echoes thumping across the distance. I squint a little, leaning forward to below where the sun seemed to go. One less blinding fire, one less gracious star to abide. The walls tremble, the window glass reverberates, the very air assaults. The sky still a stretch of storyboard blue. Rockets all racket, no red glare.
The hours stretch, the dusk excuses itself on principle, the explosions are all that’s left. The pit bull is in a panic, trying to claw through my back and smash through my skull. Every year becomes worse, with the malignant pyromaniacs setting off more and more ordinance, and Waldo now an absolute menace outside my immediate influences. Between his descent into pure nerves, the nonstop barrage of intermittent explosions, and the crazy old bat factor these last months haven’t offered up much in the way of peace. You live long enough and wrong enough, soon the only way things get is worse.
Things still shimmer, things still shine, people follow their animal sides and are good and noble once in awhile. The smoke clears from the smoldering corners and crosswalks, the sparks retreat down the fleeting fount of fire. The bursts and booming will eventually play out. I remain my only aid. My only counsel when things start to matter, my only backup when the deal goes sideways. I kept to the madness and myself, rat tails of written words twisted tight for the match. Stupid sparks and bitter bombs and the thankless on and on. I keep living, on and on in other people’s worlds.
