By Wesley Houp
Another Fourth of July
has come and gone,
and loomed over by
a resurgent pandemic,
the neighbors went feral
on the poppers and crackers,
the whizzers and bangers.
Now I know where the
unexpected boon
of government Covid checks went.
On the morning of July fifth
my neighborhood looks
like the day after Mardi Gras.
Drifts of paper casings
and wrappers and sooty boxes
and little red and green sticks
fallen from the sky.
I missed the parade
but not the sonic reckoning.
War was waged
and dogs lost.
But human anxiety
was temporarily vanquished.
For a moment
the uncertainty of the times
was replaced with a
hyper normalcy that
begs a second glance
at our history.
Dogs now are returning
to their senses,
including that little motherfucker
that likes to slip into
my backyard in the morning dark
and shit by my Baptisia.
I’ll admit to some joy
at his distress,
but I can’t blame him
for doing what dogs do.
If I were an asshole,
I’d confront the owners
over in Glaze Court,
perhaps return them
what’s rightfully theirs.
But I’ve never been able
to pull off asshole
with any conviction.
And besides,
aren’t we all just looking
for some place
to wander off to and be alone
with the new day’s promise
to manifest a destiny
in peace and quietude
before returning
to our daytime wallows?
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