a poem in my pocket

fourth of july
was his favorite
holiday when
dad, guardian
of hot punk,
would light
our sparklers;
we’d laugh and
dance in grass,
swirling
happy sparks
in waves of
patriotism.

now he comes
to iowa to
visit us, his
(temp) guardians,
and to watch
fireflies & fireworks,
celebrating his
independence
from assisted living;
he laughs aloud
at whistling stars
and deaf-defying
bangs.

how can i
bear the time
when dad’s
bright spark
explodes and
sizzles out,
smoking white,
and all my
holidays die?
i’ll remember
the laughter,
holding warm
embers.