The Flag

There we were,

on a mountain road,

about as far north

as one can get,

in the lower 48.

Beautiful
isolation.

We come
to a fork
in the road.
There sits
a lovely manicured
lawn, where two flags fly.

Our proud Stars and Stripes-
and a confederate one.
My blood runs cold.


I imagine myself
as I rip down that flag.
For it has marred
the beauty
of the one above it.

Of course, I don't-

I have no time
for hate.

S.H. Burum 2006