I stare at the spark,
Caught in the ordered line of the fuse,
Bookended by disorder
(The struck match and the brilliant fading fireworks).
How beautiful, I think,
But the smoke leaves a bitter taste.
I look on, and my ears
Are assailed with the grinding of teeth
Over the squishy fingers of a four-year-old
Plucking and hammering at the piano keys.
Knock it off, the father says,
And with that stark line, the concert is over.
I sit in the rocking chair before the fire,
And stare into its stifled beauty,
Deciding that I like the beams of wood
Lining the roof of my house
Better than the dazzlement of the fireworks.