Dan Absolutely HATES Holidays

(a 4th of July poem)


It isn't yet Dan's turn to understand;
his turn is coming later. All he knows
is that the sky exploded on him so
Dan thought it was vacuum-cleaner; that's
the loudest, terrible-est noise he knows,
though no one does that when he's sleeping. Then
it rained down crayon-colored spider legs
yet nobody was worried, and the cracks
leaked sun-yolk though it wasn't nearly time:

It must have hurt. The whole sky splintering
emergencies like stop-lights, broken eggs:
Dan's never seen such colors, he went blind
and hiding didn't help. The crippled sky
had nobody; Dan soothed it. Butterflies

Kathryn Jacobs

If you have any comments on this poem,
Kathryn Jacobs would be pleased to hear from you.