I sit on a truck's bed,
at the bonfire.
My cousin Skip
picks some notes on a banjo,
fingers fluttering half as fast
as the eyes of that pretty girl
he wants to take home tonight.
known only from the shadows
they cast by the firelight,
with kamikaze grins splitting their faces,
a skeletal sway to their shoulders.
Gouts of flame flicker and flip;
birthing, living and dying
all within the crackle
of a second.
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