July Fireworks And The Volunteer Fire Department
The fireworks in Wheatland are shot off from the baseball diamond on the night of the Fourth, a few minutes after ten, by the same three men from the volunteer fire department who have shot them off for the last fifteen years, and the budget is what the town has collectively put into a coffee can at the hardware store between Memorial Day and the end of June, which always comes out to about the same amount, more or less, depending on the year's particular feeling about itself.
The crowd sat on the outfield grass
on blankets
and on the tailgates of pickups
pulled up along the foul line,
and the kids ran
in the loose wide circles
children run in
when they have been told
they can stay up late,
trailing sparklers
that made short autographs
in the dark
and then were gone.
The high school band played
three songs it knows
and one it did not,
and Mr. Linder from the band
conducted with a flashlight
instead of a baton,
because a baton
disappears in the dark
and a flashlight does not.
The coach was there
with his wife
and his son
and his son's girlfriend
whose name he kept forgetting
on purpose,
because that was part
of being the coach,
and the girlfriend knew it,
and she called him coach
back,
which was fair.
The fireworks started at ten-oh-seven by the clock on the scoreboard, which has not been adjusted since the last time it was adjusted, which was a long time ago and nobody