After the Last Peony Explodes

 After the last Peony explodes
and the display resorts to Horsetails,
Diadems and Palms
and millions of mouths across the country
say together, “those are my favorite”
and after every neighborhood
has exhausted the sparklers,
ground spinners and fountains
in their Black Cat assortment packs
right down to the cellophane
and the last mother
has hollered her final warning
to “stand back” and “be careful”
and the streets are all littered 
with charred cardboard containers
and burnt sticks of punk ends
and all the reports have boomed
in a final concussion
and the screaming whistled rockets
are only echos in eardrums
and the dazzling colors have
discharged to a gunpowder haze
with a detonated, bitter odor of


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