dabs of pale chartreuse
grace the tips of trees that
reach outward; caressing the sky
of untainted periwinkle
as the feathers that cover
the graceful wings of songbirds
cut through the zephyrean air
like a knife. but the sky
does not respond to the stabbings
and simply continues to harass
a flag drooping sadly from a pole
where it will forever be hung for display,
nothing more than a piece of brightly
striped and spangled cloth to all.
the wind curls up against it,
holding it proudly in the air for all to see,
not realizing the street is empty,
the only spectators the birds
who are continually oblivious
to the oddly-colored cloth
and would be willing to leave
the remains of the food that
has already passed through
their bodies on the flag.
once again curled up,
it covers the pole and tries
to warm itself from the
cold cruel frost of apathy.
11 April 1998