A Few Lines

I stare at the spark,

Caught in the ordered line of the fuse,

Bookended by disorder

and 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.