I think this poem is unfinished.

Explosions in the morning sound like my neighbor building something in his garage
Hammering, I think, but it's not the sound of creation.
It's the sound of destruction or rather recreation of destruction
Reservation fireworks mimic the cannon shells and musket volleys
Of the defenders of our independence
The slave owners, the land holders, the wealthy men
Who wanted their chance to rise to unofficial royalty
By virtue of hard work and the luck to be born
In a place and time where the color of your skin
Was the biggest determinate of your success.
A place and time not so different from here and now.

So my neighbors, not the builder in his garage,
But the exploders in the street,
Pay tribute to those fighters
Though they don't really seem aware
Of the symbolism of their fireworks
They know it's all about their freedom,
The freedom to pretend they are revolutionaries
The freedom to explode ordnance
In impotent displays
Like children.