| July 4th, 1981
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| Candles of a Roman ilk
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| Unloaded from a Chevy truck
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| Into the home her folks had built
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| Patio was charcoals and extended fam in folding chairs
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| Safely arced around the yard to focus on the smoking flares
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| Couple cousins, uncles, aunts
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| Mostly grown-ups, couple brats
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| Baby Ruby’s only two, she’s too close to the jumping jacks
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| Mommy scoops her to the house, buckles up the booster seat
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| Rolls her to the storm door, let her long for all the lunacy
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| Telephone distracting Mom, Ruby wriggles out her strap
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| Fingers push the plexiglass, she’s off into the sour patch
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| Past the pyrotechnics, undetected and invisible
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| Woke the sleeping beagle skipping toward the kidney swimming pool
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| Off into the yawning blue, the splash would mum the rocket-ships
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| Ruby’s lungs were filling by the time her kin were cognizant
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| Many sprung and sprinted down, all arrive belated but
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| The beast she had earlier stirred had been alert since waking up
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| Canine let his gainer fly, water-top commotion grow
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| Howling guests assume the cloven hooves had come to do-si-do
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| Frenzied and congested deck, part to let the others see
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| Soggy beagle gently dragging Ruby in his yellow teeth
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| Laid the tiny body in the sun before her father‘s feet
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| When she choked the liquid through her bluish lips he dropped his knee
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| Help the air to reconvene, towel his shaking Ruby off
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| EMT confirm the save, everybody say «good dog!» |