American Echo

"Jesse James was my great, great grandfather,"
he says, eyes glazed and unblinking.
His mustache droops over a caved-in mouth.
His crutches lean against the glass.
A dachshund stretches across his lap.
"Don't believe me?" he says. "I got proof."
As the bus crossed the drawbridge
he reaches into his jeans and pulls out
a pocket watch, holds it up for me to inspect.
It looks brand new, shiny.
He raises his eyebrows.
I look away.
The July Fourth fireworks disintegrate
into glittering dust over the river,
obnoxious blossoms blooming 
with merciful brevity.
He pulls out his cell phone to take a picture.
Everyone twists their necks.
The booms, the shots
follow us like bullets
hurtling down the barrel of the night.