The flag man, skin the color
of old chocolate, walks
down our street, nails flags to trees,
telephone poles and mailboxes.
He would tuck one under our dog's collar
if he could catch him.

It's the fourth of July
every day, thanks to the flag man.

He stands in front of his house,
waves happily at passing cars,
never caress that traffic is scant
on this one-block, go-nowhere street,
not minding that those few lost strangers
quickly roll up their windows,
slam locks shut when they see him
flapping his flag in front of their hood
like a crazed, overweight matador.




Pris Campbell
©2011

Portrait of the flag found HERE

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