subtext

I step back inside for a moment to call

the boys out to see quickly before the            

X-Wings and T.I.E. fighters finish their dog

fight and flee back into the night. The sky

explodes in Technicolor as the ships dip

and slip between the bursting flak. The oldest

boy excitedly notices a neighbor two doors

down hunkering in a roof-top command box,

like in Mary Poppins, firing banks of rockets

into the fray as if archers at Agincourt. Collateral

fire falls into our fire pit in the back yard, and

onto candles laid out on the table, and we gather

around casually discussing our lives, and kids,

and jobs as if nothing unordinary occurs at all.