Lateisha Terrell can’t find the hundred dead
presidents to plea bargain her ten-year-old’s
car stereo theft down to malicious mischief.
Welfare don’t last till this time of month.
On Jefferson, the wrong angle of cap or tie
of laces will speed the aging process fast.
On Washington, you best be packing heat.
The pop pop of shootings in the breezeway
don’t change weather or daddy’s last visit.
It’s not how long you make it, it’s how you
make it long. Upside down, Blue Angels fly
above us, rattling windows in the stomachs
of the sunny bayside crowd. They crisscross
and loop, trailing smoke that keeps the empire
strong. Afterburners orange in climb, in dive
they scare seals but not tourists shopping
for souvenirs of this Fourth: American flag
ashtrays and Death From Above decals the steady
movers. When the plush cold of fog rumbles in,
the Angels loudly eat what’s left of the sky.