Tonight's Poet Corner: Sonnet Solstice #253
On Bastille Day
by Belinda Roddie
On Bastille Day, we danced under the French
flag, listened to the fireworks, and drank
greedily as we collapsed on a bench
beside the bay. All seven of us stank
of cigarettes. None of us really had
ancestry from France, save for Pierre, who
was from Paris, and he was simply clad
in a T-shirt and jeans, while Sam and Drew
wore berets and drew mustaches across
their upper lips that covered their peach fuzz.
I felt exhaustion grow on me like moss
drooping from a tree. Pierre sighed. "So does
your group of friends always celebrate this
day?" This was not our story. This was his.
by Belinda Roddie
On Bastille Day, we danced under the French
flag, listened to the fireworks, and drank
greedily as we collapsed on a bench
beside the bay. All seven of us stank
of cigarettes. None of us really had
ancestry from France, save for Pierre, who
was from Paris, and he was simply clad
in a T-shirt and jeans, while Sam and Drew
wore berets and drew mustaches across
their upper lips that covered their peach fuzz.
I felt exhaustion grow on me like moss
drooping from a tree. Pierre sighed. "So does
your group of friends always celebrate this
day?" This was not our story. This was his.
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