We stand amid the old tracks
with tar baking up from the ties
gravel grinding under our shoes
and tall grass rustling against our knees.
I hoist the 7Up bottle
loaded with the hissing
Black Cat heavenward.
These are the glorious seconds --
the gray fuse hisses orange,
flaking off pieces like a snake’s discarded skin,
heat singes my hand,
as the rocket takes on a mighty life of its own
its tiny red body tears free
the muddy smoke swirls from the green glass
leaving
just a taste of sulfur on the breeze.
Pleased as a boy can be,
I reach for the next candidate.
Granny, standing over me,
shields her eyes from the sun,
and watches the tiny rocket
twirl up
and up
and up
and pop --
With the punk clenched between my teeth
I have another hoisted
by the time the tiny red body
lands in the grass next to us.
“Don’t you ever enjoy the flight?”
This has never occurred to me.
So we watch the next rocket
climb
above rooftops
twisting and turning,
above high line wires
leaving a faint gray vapor trail
above the trees
its red body ascending
up to where the water tower reaches
then Pop --
“I wonder what it looks like from the rocket’s point of view.”
In those few seconds - I see the everything differently.
I see
the immense oaks towering over lawns,
the tall pines pointing to the sky
our roof and chimney
the flat, gravel covered roof of the high school
the blinding tin dome of the gymnasium
yards sectioned into neighborhoods
blocks neatly squared off by
streets and alleys.
a tiny boy with his grandmother
hands over eyes peering up
growing smaller.
For each of the 28 Fourth of July's
since then I launch at least one bottle rocket --
the old 7Up glass bottles are long gone
replaced by cheap plastic ones.
Eventually I became good enough
to simply hold the rocket by its very tail.
Knowing the precise time -
a blend of tension in the body
heat from the ignition
and 28 Fourth of July's worth of timing
to let the rocket go free.
And I watch it go up and up and up
and I grow smaller and smaller and smaller.
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