The Firecracker

Is it exuberance
that in late autumn rips
a firecracker, one
ignited bb gun,
across the lawn?
So small a rocket
vanishing in the cosmos.

The houses near
are dark, some
with a light in the kitchen,
the humid air heavy
as wool, smelling
of horse and humus.
Late crimson leaves
blown down and browned
crumble when touched
like burnt toast.
A few tenacious mosquitos
lick between legs,
fireflies streaking
only in memory
or like a phantom appear
ephemeral in this
late sweet heat
before winter.
But that firecracker–
from the hands
of the latch-key kids
of a neighbor renting
down the lane and
never at home, they roam
at this late hour,
fingers inked
with the odor of sulphur,
lighting for a moment
their wonder–
a few inches
in the darkness before them.

Originally published in The Blue Mountain Review.

To read the full issue in which it appeared, click here.