I hated the Fourth of July as a kid
schlepping blankets and cold beverages
to the park to climb over strangers
through the blast of city swelter
only to wait until dark to watch
the bombs bursting in air.
Not half as exciting as watching
Judy Entine getting excited about fireworks
that would peter out in minutes
so Ode to Joy could spill from tinny speakers
as mother made us shake out the blanket
and head home alongside fellow Phillufyans
with ringing ears and dirty bottoms and
a vision of Judy Entine in short shorts.
I hate the Fourth of July as an adult
planning and parking and ear-plugging
the random thunder and lightning
that scares the cats and dogs so much
they cower in the shower or under the bed
until the misconstrued Bruce Springsteen coda.
I bet my father hated fireworks too.
He was an Army anti-aircraft gunner
for four years in Sicily and Cherbourg
and Algiers and saw lots of fireworks
and created his fair share and lost his brother
and came home and married his brother’s
fiancée and sired a son. I bet he hated
fireworks after the war. He saw only three.
Bruce Buschel is a writer living in Bridgehampton.