The world is acting out. Like a tired child, perhaps, with no parent to drag them out of the supermarket, they fume, fuss, bawl and refuse to do anything, anything at all.
Exhausted. Maybe the world is exhausted too.
It needs a nap, or to be put to bed without supper.
In the street outside our bedroom window an old man’s muscle car is slipping its clutch, in and out, in and out, rubber melting into tar, acrid smoke hovering above the pavement like dark mist above dark water.
A volley of firecrackers begins, then roman candles, bottle rockets, cherry bombs, boom, boom, boom, then more squealing, tired, petulant children scatter as a police car – father with a rolled-up magazine – chases them about the parking lot.
Up the street the lawns of restaurants are crowded with makeshift tables and impromptu celebrations: check everyone’s ID and, yes, it’s true, everyone is turning 21 tonight, again.
No one can hold their liquor or their tongue or their tongue while they are drinking.
On the historic waterfront long past their prime bikers parade in place.
They arrive with an angry roar, depart with a deafening din but, in between can only stomp their feet.
One wears a t-shirt that reads, “Black Bikes Matter.” Where is his mother?
I can only take so much 70’s pop music.
Brandy, you are a fine girl, but can you shut that guy up?
You don’t have to ask: this is what I am listening to, car after car proclaims.
My father was amused by the thought of aliens arriving and trying to understand our language by reading bumper stickers.
I’m not sure but freedom appears to be comprised of the right to park anywhere you want, at any time, then stay until reinforcements arrive.