Smoke tangles with tangerine clouds on the horizon
like an invitation sealed in a soft cream envelope.
The dying breath of day sends an empty beer can down
the street into fresh dark, where no doubt it’ll go on forever.
One by one neighbors shut their windows but still
the laugh tracks bounce off brick and concrete, knowing
good and well this life is syndicated.
Next door two boys punch it out in the mosquito glow
of the streetlamp – shirts ripped, cursing like their fathers,
the neighborhood in silence as this happens all too often.
The world just isn’t big enough for boys with two first names.
You would’ve pulled them apart.
Last night I saw you in Cape Canaveral as rockets became
raptured in ribbons of smoke and you tossed your hair over
your shoulder and waved at the camera, laughing with all
your body the way honest people do. Before the end you said
without Him you were nothing, but even in nothing you were everything.
Often I awake in the dark unsure of where I am,
too afraid to move for there are killers on the highway,
haunted by white noise from an after-hours television.
Maybe it’s applause.
Originally appeared in Art Focus Oklahoma: Spring 2018.
Link to digital issue
Evening Panoply 