Any brighter and
streams in the ditches
would look like Cuyahoga River
across Cleveland during the 1960's
There is no fire, only flies
who make bright their bellies
and flash for show like the perverts
in metropolitan inner city parks
Enticed to the flies, like moths
to the ceiling globes,
we gather jars and lids
with air holes hammered hard
No walking as we streak
along gravel roads built after WWII
when rationing was lifted
and road speeds jumped
Flies caught one by one
are smashed on white tees,
luminous signals for drivers
alert to the folly of our play
Our madness endures
until Ball jars become
dim lanterns of joy for us and jail
for the bugs doomed
to die before daybreak
until swept from the garage
floor as we plot our assault
on airborne glimmers along
tonight's roadsides
