To the boy watching, the fireworks are like
the chandeliers lighting a tri-colour carwash. Inside
the car being washed, a child’s small hands
blink, the soap smokes down, and larger
hands drape down all around. On a piece
of lined paper on a hardcover book on his lap,
a spirograph turns jerkily.
He is using a four-colour pen. His mother
opens the lighted glove compartment, flips down
her little lighted sunshade mirror, smiles
at him, and spins a dollar on the dash.
A line cracks across the windshield. A garage door
rolls up like a frame of film advancing.
His mother turns to inspect his four-colour rose.
White chrysanthemums explode above her head.