Porch. Chair. July. late afternoon.
Stillborn flag. Neighbor’s pole. Clouds
drop in. I want what everybody wants:
a drink. Fireworks. Some sex. Instead
it’s stars and stripes forever
fucked. Mother and child bike helmeted
by a strong belief in future peril.
Trees sag. Cars pass out
on the relentless boulevard. A small town
lazily dreams of its dead. Ice cream melts
in the hand of surprised child
who will grow to be appalled. The author
of this is laughing behind the sun, handing
out flyers for reelection to angels
reminding them that all employees
must wash hands.