Fire 2: America, a poem by jeffrey james keyes

He strikes the match

quickly as to not burn his finger on a hand with

seven or eight almost vanished scars,

three cuts,

chapped webbing,

and dirty nails.

Half of the time,

when he looks in the mirror he sees

this magical prince who rode on a white stallion across the bridge,

the other half of the time he sees someone darker, worn, hollow, baggy eyes,

tired from the world.

Today is somewhere in-between.

Sailboats catch the wind on the lake nearby,

some children played in the grass outside

he thinks about simple things:

Yo-yos, bubble wrap, scotch tape, marbles, Kool-Aide,

and then America: McDonald's, guns, Amazon, George Washington,

Sha’Carri Richardson, Tonya Harding, Monica Lewinsky,

and then simple things:

swizzle sticks, licorice, hula hoops, plastic dogs with bouncing heads,

and festive sprinkles on mint chocolate chip ice cream (keto, macrobiotic, low-fat low-carb non-dairy something or another)

His lips curl and begin to form a smile,

meanwhile a child in Dubuque, Iowa throws a paper airplane:

the wind catches it, it soars across the hedge and into the alley where

an inchworm ignores its existence and continues following a crack
into a bustle of leaves

his grin remains

he thinks about the American flag:

perfect white stars on a blue background

filling his mind like the ocean

the wind catches its fabric and ripples like a

towering white spinnaker on an old wooden schooner

coming about on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

He tastes an ice-cold mandarin spice sun tea,

the one he enjoyed yesterday,

savoring for one final moment,

looking down…

the match went out,

he strikes again, the sulfur ignites,

a simple flame sparks to greet him

while the wind still blows outside

and the inchworm still crawls

and we’re all still here

we’re all still here

we’re all still real