Independence Day
       

Near dark the clouds crowd
over the milkwhite moon—
the only night it remembers to rain
that whole terrible summer.
They move inside, treat the stranger
to a cold Bud and a charred dog,
and he talks a long time
about strategies for lucid dreaming.
Later they pass the glass pipe
and the dogs nose out
from the back bedroom,
hoping one of these zombies
is still up for a little belly scratching.
Steady rain against the street like
the hiss of a bad home recording.
On the counter radio the DJ
plays a march by J. Philip Sousa
intended for fireworks that never fire.
The refrigerator rumbles, mindlessly
turning water into tiny cubes of ice.

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Copyright © 2022 Justin Hamm All rights reserved
from Sugar House Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission