Our limp flag concedes
it is ready to be made into a dress.
I receive a letter from the capitol
apologizing that its members are gutted fish
ready for the fry pan.
Remind me why I am writing a script
about a spangled starfish
that curled its toes in the Potomac Tidal Basin
with a view of Jefferson.
A barrage of fireworks
fail to create new constellations
for the nation’s navigators to steer
the ship of state.
Opportunity brushed by
leaving a scar on my patriotic shirt sleeve
but no mark on my arm.
A bullet salesman rings the doorbell
wanting to show me the contents
of his samples case.
copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney