Rottle Bocket

ROTTLE BOCKET
a character sketch
November 23, 2007

I am light puzzles flashing, splitting,
petals ripped out and apart
and shot through the air to dance
like polychrome diamonds with the stars.
I was made to burn, to launch
into a trillion exploding spider webs
from aluminum feet
to a coruscating pinwheel.
Over smoking summer grass and
charcoal flaming in black iron pits
I send my acrid scent of
cap gun powder through the air.
A whistle, a shout, a breath held
in awe, anticipation, ready to be
amazed, dazzled, to be deafened
against the colorful hail stones that soon
must come like breaking glass, or
ice cracking at midnight over
a cold and empty road.
But alas! It is me after all,
and like last time and the time before
and the time before that, this puzzle
is a dud. No petals here.
No diamonds. Once off my feet
there are no spider webs,
no dance at the end of my launch.
Just a lot of speed, a bit of fizzle,
and a nonexplosive shrug and
a vapid sigh.