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The fake isolation of the island insinuated the fostering of remnants;
remnants of religious fervor, close knit seafaring families, and rugged farmers;
remnants of power past and present.

A fog shrouded canvass awaits the onslaught of August revelry.
And, where widows walked the peeks of robber barons manses, the elementals now play.

Tomato red fire trucks ring the seaside green. Throngs of , oh so, polite W.A.S.P.S 
and multicultural couples dot the lawn in precise groupings.

The squeal of stroller strapped toddlers echo across ocean 
and down alleyways lined with painted ladies 

Gay blades and saucy sisters saunter unharassed through the crowds of young families.
Prosperously retirees with salt and pepper hair in pink and green golf shirts line the porches 
of the gingerbread homes ringing the green.

In the gazebo a brass band plays John Phillip Souza and closes by belting out 
the American anthem, after dark, no flag wave, yet random patriots stand.
Their forms silhouette upon the gray fog like their intentions 
mocking the holiday aire with their reminder of war….

those raging on in Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan and Pakistan.
and fade with the crowds roar to “Sit down your blocking the view!”

And as the elite, and privileged meet and greet chatting in wonder over the multiple sightings 
of airforce one choppers and past President Clinton.

The three times the worlds average wage is spent on FIREWORKS, frivolously, 
for the entertainment of the richest citizens of the planet. God Blessed America.

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