powder burns
at the cook-out
Bobby proudly displays
his cache of fireworks
with the same
unfounded arrogance
apparent when he
shows off his
recently purchased
sports utility vehicle,
or his four-wheeler,
or his pontoon boat,
or his drum set.
it’s a thousand dollars’
worth of fireworks,
he says, I bought them
for three hundred dollars.
so, then, it’s three hundred
dollars’ worth of fireworks.
no, it’s a thousand
dollars’ worth I picked
up for three hundred.
which makes it worth
three hundred dollars.
I don’t see you bringing
any fireworks, he hisses.
fair enough, I concede,
hold my beer while I
run to town and pick up
a thousand dollars’ worth
of sparklers and stink bombs
for twenty bucks.
©2023 Karl Koweski All rights reserved.
Karl Koweski is a displaced Chicagoan, now living on top of a mountain in rural Alabama. His poetry and stories have been published throughout the small press and collected in several volumes. He’s been on a bit of a sabbatical these last five years but has finally gotten back into the swing of things.