Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Fireworks

My muscles were
lean and tan
that summer between
seventh and eighth
grade.
I chopped cotton,
or rather
the weeds from it,
in the hot
Arkansas sun,
I worked to earn
money,for
the 4th of July
picnic, held each
year in town.
There would be
funnel cakes and
games with
stretched necked
soda bottles filled
with colored
water
as prizes, and
people would
be there
from miles around.
Her name was Becky,
she had
curly springs of
lemon frosting hair.
She smiled dimpled
and braces
sparkled in the
red and violet carnival
lights.
Walking and talking,
holding hands
laughing, blushing and
living in the moment.

Daylight submitted to dusk.

Our time drawing to close,
and leaning,
lips parting
I tasted my first
real kiss and, of course,

fireworks.