Fourth of July

I saw you tonight, America. You, your citizens of color, or no color. I saw your celebration of explosions, your children frightened by the boom of small bombs shot into the air. I saw your traffic. You smell like sulfur and gasoline. I celebrated the music that happens beneath your underbelly, on the rooftop of a bar where I bought drinks with friends and nearly caved in the top balcony while listening to your heartbeat – songs about love, work, and getting away from it all in the transient fog of smoking myself high.
HOW’RE YOU GONNA CELEBRATE WAR TODAY? I PLAN ON EATING MEAT ALL DAY LONG. That’s what she said.
I met her at a bar to drink and eat a hamburger. We took photos. My friend played a chess game at the booth in the opposite corner. A group of regulars corralled around the bar, passed drinks and conversation. Baseball played on the Tvs. Music blared from the jukebox. My table leaned heavily one direction or another, dependant upon who leaned on it. My water gone, I went for Jack on the rocks. GRANPA WOULD DRINK THIS TODAY. I sat in wait for a cummulated 20 minutes at stoplights alone. I bypassed traffic on my bicycle. Your means of transport are foolish. They smell terrible and make things too loud. Engines and horns and screeching breaks, whining breaks, tires peeling pavement. And where, in all this, do we hide?