Flag’s Crack

A dry snap—

the flag strikes the pole like brittle bone.

Metal ringing a sharp reminder,

a crack cutting through the street’s slow hum.

Frayed edges hit hard against cold steel,

whipping tight in the morning’s breath.

It sounds like anger, like last words shouted

and then swallowed by a cracked sky.

The flag’s broken voice splits the air,

a sudden punctuation in dull noise,

a rough, ragged snap that will not soften,

hanging stubborn like a worn promise.

I keep hearing it, each step like a fault,

a dry crack that won’t let the wind go,

that sharp clash inside my chest—

unfinished, loud, and leaning toward silence.