The Garbage Eater: Poems

Nights of Fireworks, Days of Drought

7 NightsofFireworks,DaysofDrought Moonlight made the sparks less splendid, but I still did it—lit the wick, held it till my courage went cold, and whipped it forward as it burst. Then a friend’s turn. Victims took ones on cheek or neck as they ducked for cover, scampering by instinct on rail ties. Cinders peppered the sandbar far below. Smell of late summer disaster in the air: smoke spread like those Confederate spirits, said to have floated up from the water when the engine derailed and fell and pulled the cars. A faraway freight whistle signaled us. As the train approached, we called Truce, scurried from our ramparts and hid at the embankment’s crest, close as we dared, to belt the iron armor with curses and match its screeches with our bottle rockets. We walked home too tired to assign close calls or complain of burns, skinned elbows. (What use was danger but to please us?) Never once did we think to be thankful, nor regret what was typical, we immortals, sneaking back through bedroom windows. ...