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There were fireworks.  It was
The Fourth of July.  People lay
On their backs in the grass,
And were awed.  When the frantic
Finale was over, they stood up
And clapped, and then packed
What they'd brought, and went
Pell mell, like Sooners, from
Where they'd been laying, to cars,
Into traffic, eventually home.
I was among them, a skeptic,
No jingo, a communist, actually,
There for the flowers which bloomed
In the air, for the odor of sulphur,
And your evanescence.  I loved
You at that time.  I think I still do,
But you're gone, like the fireworks.
Little remains, marks in the grass
From the thousands of backs,
Beer cans in bins, and boxes
Of pizza, and also, of course,
My ridiculous longing for someone,
Who, I believe, never intended
To do more than light up my sky.

© Lawrence Beck 2023