The Flag of My Disposition

The free end of the flag snags in a beak
at the top of the pole. It tears and tears,
caught in a gust. The stripes strain, the threads
shred with each angry twist. This sail snaps
to nowhere. A mean wind takes me there.
Where everything stalls. Even a blow
gets marooned, and stars won't move.
They stare and stare from where they're fixed.
Right there, where the same groove gets deeper
and deeper. Hear that clink of the rope?
It's not a way out. But the same thin way in.

Copyright © 2003 Elaine Sexton All rights reserved
from Sleuth
New Issues
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission