The air is sticky,
drowning syrup coating lungs

with the smell of mint and pollen
which, by twilight hangs
in misty trails unseen
by hundreds of

sun-screened, bug-sprayed

sugar-mouthed, greasy-fingered

moderately overweight
Witnesses of booming arcs in the half-dark sky


of splattered, molded lightening
shaped into sharp stars and neon circles
that each illuminate the rashes of smoke that clot moistly in the night






that mask the stars
dazzling the supine spectators
lounging in damp, cold grass with their
messy-haired kids in redwhite&blue

fueled by roller-coaster induced adrenaline
and sugar-powered excitement

which, after 15 minutes of entranced gazing up at the

war-torn sky
fades to a dim, sandy-eyed lethargy that seems to bear a sense of surprising familiarity.