sparkler

There is something intimate
about holding a sputtering, silver sparkler
while on your balcony
at night,
alone,
on the 4th of July.

My case manager had put the idea in my head –
“No plans for the 4th?
Come on, Marc,
light a sparkler or something.”

Truth is, at 44,
I had never lit one.

When we were kids
(it always starts with “when we were kids”, doesn’t it?,
as if past parental negligence could explain
why we are lame today.)
When we were kids,
my sister and I weren’t allowed sparklers,
not even matches;
no snap dragons, let alone bottle rockets…

(…so of course only my best friend knew of my pyrotechnical propensities,
honed in the back yard on the stones
with wispy, flying Kleenex’s, alive with flame, floating toward the house,
and little plastic cupfuls of kerosene spilt over the rocks and then set afire...)

Even a mama’s boy can get his hillbilly on at age 44 –
let that pyro out of the closet in a little 4th of July tribute,
share a moment with his inner child
on the balcony
with his lone starlight spewing against the darkness,

coincidentally,
at a time in his life when his love has finally become a thing to explore,
sweet strange strawberry
to be kissed
before tasted.