The Day Before Independence

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So this is where my people spend
the day before Independence.
They're all here at the symphony:
CEOs, MBAs, RNs,
retired war veterans,
secretaries and doctors.
This is where they conduct holiday,
drink wine like a tonic.
This is where their well-fed
children throw balls and race
across borders, calling and calling.

This is where the rockets sound.

I am here on the hill, barefoot,
my blanket and my wine claiming
this small territory.
I wonder how the world
might celebrate such liberty:
how they might talk as I do, sitting
in lawn chairs, on the bench
at a train station, on an airplane;
how they might walk
barefoot on dirt roads, barefoot
in tall grass, carrying water or wine.
Carrying water for miles;
going without it.

When the drums begin, they sound like boots.
When the rockets launch, they look like bombs.

We toss around our liberty like a firecracker.
But it feels heavier than that.
It falls like a grenade.

Here, the pin is pulled.
Here, the cymbal is struck.

This is where my people sing their anthem,
with their wine and their toast,
with their bright sparks against the night.