Sink

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.