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The Fourth MAG
A sea of colorful blankets
Cover the burnt grass
With sweaty bodies
Lazily scattered across
The cotton surface.
A child flies a kite
Unaffected by the heat.
The ends of sparklers
Are ignited by Bic lighters
Held by adolescent hands.
Couples find comfort in
Each other's arms
As they wait for the show
To begin.
Like a flock of birds,
The fireworks suddenly
Rocket into the July sky
With a thunderous boom,
Showering a spectrum
Of hues against the sunset.
Dozens of eyes stare into
The vacuum of space.
I sit uncomfortably on
A splintered wooden bench
Immune to the spectacle.
On the paper plate in front of me
Lies a juicy watermelon wedge.
My teeth sink sinfully into
The watermelon's flesh.
I spit out the small black seeds
On a stranger's blanket.
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