By: Colin James

I’m leaning against a flagpole.
It’s moving a bit in the wind
enough for prophesies of nausea
without being political,
besides the obvious bias.
Flag not currently flying,
the rope is clanging, echoing
from the poles hollow center.
I’m not thin enough to be inconspicuous.
Some poles are padded
with blood thickening assumptions
as some legs are spread here about,
adorned beneath patriotic neophytes.
I find this out too late
standing up here clueless
and now excused
from the act themselves.