Fourth

This explosion laden sky —
simulacrum of war — red glare,
etc.  Flag, etc. Drums and
parade and roasting, grilling,
etc. The best damn colors
in the whole damn world, etc.,
red among them, red the shade
of all of the blood-spill of our history, etc. —
I am trying to forget my usual rage
in favor of an uneasy delicacy around 
one huge fear prompted tonight
at the fireworks show,
among the large trucks in the lot
surmounted with large US flags,
by a small brown boy who ran laughing
and clapping gladly at the exploding sky,
simulacrum of war, red glare, etc., 
knowing nothing but joy
at loud noise and a sky full of flames — 
incendiary stars briefly shining
then burning out as they fell
as their cousins the bombs
fall elsewhere upon brown boys
like him, and tonight (at least) the large men
are laughing with him as he runs among their
giant waving flags; he is growing up
under those flags, under a
war-ripped sky, and I wonder: if and when
things change for him here,
will he end up loving or loathing the etc. 
that is this place, will he end up
as afraid as I am of the large men
in the large trucks and their flags
the size of tents, of walls, etc., etc., 
when if ever will he become afraid
of all the etc. that comes these days
for so many as part of life
under the red and white and blue.

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About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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