the fireworks

 

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.