Upon Flying Low Over the Great Plains on the Fourth of July
By: Dave Woehrle
In his window seat next to her, he observes:
fire confetti leap to tickle wings,
each burst reflects Lucky Charms green,
virgin panty pink,
colors on the wing's underbelly,
twisting to turn on the shiny metal tip.
Aliens must saucer over us on Independence Day
with sodas, popcorn, and expectations,
loving the show, the explosions.
They imagine Kansas full of robed alchemists
celebrating summer corn with fuschia flames at night.
So he laughs at these star hiccups,
these lily pads of light
splashing the lithosphere
cupped in his oval window.
She sighs, turns the page of her Vogue. It’s just fireworks, honey.
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