Drones (Render Safe Procedure)

You thumbed the head of the lighter, introducing it

to fuse after fuse

that stuck out like stingers from the butts

of the paper bumblebees. You pinched them 
by the wing then released them

to corkscrew madly, buzzing into the night.

We’d spend weeks plucking them from the gravel

which the city refused or couldn’t afford to repave,

no matter how many times we called to complain.

But tonight, we couldn’t see where they landed,

couldn’t even see where we stepped, the streetlights

were all shot out, and your heel teetered

on the lip of a gaping pothole just as you thrust

the cardboard baton of a Roman candle

high over your scalp like Lady Liberty wielding

her cold, green torch. Your whoop of triumph

turned to surprise as you toppled backwards, just as

–piff! Piff! Piff!- the bundles of lit gunpowder

shot from the mouth of the barrel, flying not skyward

but directly towards your own front porch.

And you, who pay your taxes just like everyone else,

you who are just as chained to this fool’s bargain

as the rest of us, you cried out at the explosions,

though there was little damage aside from some

black ash on the yellow siding,

the singed straw of the welcome mat.

Deciding this was a sign we should lay down our arms,

we strolled tipsily through the dinky nearby park

where an aging fat couple sat on beach chairs

beside a plastic cooler full of more impressive July 4^th ordnance

than most of us in the neighborhood could afford.

Every few minutes they’d sigh and wearily rise

to set another one off, reluctantly, as if performing

a loathsome but necessary chore, an obligation.

On autopilot, merely going through the motions.

As the starbursts and streamers whistled and boomed above,

I thought of Bradley, recently back from Baghdad,

having finished his third tour of duty and returned

taciturn as ever. When badgered, he’d mutter

a few vague anecdotes about guarding alleged insurgents

in a Green Zone warehouse converted into cells.

The scorching heat with no relief, the days banal beyond belief.

An IED leaves a hell of a pothole, but he escaped

from the burning desert unscathed. 
We swivel our heads at a screech 

from a couple rolling lustily around

on a blanket: her spine has just connected

with a hidden stone. The two old-timers

look bored by all the racket.

Is this what it comes down to, in the end;

apathy in the midst of the explosions?

The thrill and horror dulled by the sheer

persistence of all this drudgery?

Does boredom become our greatest enemy?

Tired of slapping our arms to mash the mosquitoes,

we head back, careful to skirt the tines of charred sparklers,

the cardboard shells of dead incendiaries.

In front of the house, we once again trip

on those same invisible gouges in the road,

skinning our knees, too tired to cry out,

too tired to laugh at our clumsiness.

The night is dark and reeks of drifting powder,

the only sound a crackle in the distance.

Those sudden flashes of light are so rapidly spent:

no sooner do they fade, then we forget.