From a balcony in Santa Ana [in progress]

It’s still magical, even from a balcony

six miles away in Santa Ana, the far-off

sonic booms and pixilated workings of color

and spectrums. I envy those

stroller-years when God was pyrotechnics

and a chocolate-dipped banana.

Now I’m alone, and a carton of ice cream is

still relief, but not so sweet when on a balcony,

alone and goosebumped. How pastel it all is—no

bold colors tonight with lights polluting our

skies, molding alongside ash. When you’re

young and dumb, you don’t think about the silence

in between the Disneyland “Parade of Dreams”

but simply marvel at the workings of

fireworks and a chocolate-dipped banana.