I watch fireworks through my rearview mirror
wrap about the silhouette of my city in retreat.
I savour the umbrellas and dahlias of explosions
that trace my way through the street lit night
as I rush into it, driving in reverse.

I cannot reach out and touch my life but I can touch
the tracers and sparklers, comets and butt rattling booms
in a piece of glass on the side of my car.
Jarret asks, “Dad do you know how to touch
fireworks?” and I can’t answer him, I am too intent
upon the road unwinding and if I will ever reach it.

I am lost in my life, trapped from the pure surround
of fire and sound; I am just a part of the script of my life,
reduced to a character that lurks on stage, wanting
to climb into the film, and take over a line or two, dream
the real fireworks start when I open my mouth and say
something.

How can you watch the explanation of things recede,
just drive somewhere to get by, and no one has time to talk
about the exploding star rising on the horizon, spitting gold
and silver, the roar of a dragon, or perhaps I didn’t hear,
I just dreamt that I could reach out and touch a world
and that everything I have ever known would explode.

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