July 4: Lot's wife

Here is one called Fountain of Happiness,
packed and shipped over seas and state lines for 59 cents.
Once the unconvincing little fizz
and whirl of sparks flails and sputters, fence
to the sidewalk, leaving barely a burn spot,
light's gone for good, swept over the air with a whiff
of smoke, like the past erasing itself. Not
as our Mom will notice, staring from the porch as if
she's turned, and turned to salt: already can't
recall it. Now, then, our poor arsenal is spent,
but flaring above the trees and houses, clear
from the next town, fresh signs and wonders appear:
same said fountains doing same said thing on high.
Erasing. She is not looking at the sky.