FIREWORKS

While others are gawping, upwards,

like lobotomized meer-kats,

and oohing, and aahing

at colourful chemical reactions

in the sky, I go down to my kitchen

to put bangers under the grill.

Sitting on the cold stone floor,

I warm myself as I watch

flesh-pink sausages,

sun-bathers, repellently obese,

sweat grease and brown and burn

until they explode,

whistling, pissing fat.

No artifice from their orifice,

but spitting flashes of life:

incandescent shooting stars,

evanescent stirring shots

of celebration, cheaper

than fireworks, and edible.

Copyright © 2014. Terry J. Bradford