We were those colorful roman candles ignited, admired spectacle us,
our rapid upward flight culminating is a dazzling explosion,
skyrockets soaring out their hearts to extinction
so colorfully splattered against the deep black sky.
We were the most humongous pack of 10,000 firecrackers, no peewees,
the long red intricately braided strands hung
from streetlights and tree limbs and long bamboo poles,
exploding like machine gun fire and tracers flashing,
ending finally in a flurry of rapid banging climactic exuberance,
leaving piles of red tattered rubbish to clean up afterward.
We were the fireworks back in the day when there actually were leftovers on sale
at Longs Drugs when they opened up January 2nd,
bought up and hoarded until July 4th,
or maybe even until the next New Year’s Eve,
the coveted ones that when you lit them only fizzled and died,
stale from storage time and moisture, mildewed duds
proving apparent bargains can turn out to be expensive busts.
Where’s the punk? Who get match? What we going blow up?
Shit, brah, that’s making one big fricken fire and us no more hose get.
Here come the Fire Department and the cops.
No say nothing about this to nobody ever.