Stuck Flag

The poet might find grace

in the way it catches the air,

a cheap, white scrap, a flutter

against the sky, light and free,

a momentary dancer there.

But this one, up on the fence,

a barb through its side,

is not a beauty. It’s a pain.

It strains, it pulls, it tears,

not light, but a thing caught,

a dirty flag of nothing

full of grit and dead leaves, no gain.

It snaps at the wire, a frantic fit,

whipped and stretched thin,

a supermarket logo, faded, grim.

There's no freedom in that, not a bit,

just a desperate thrashing in the wind,

trying to break free of its sin.