sewing on a star
in the mountain town’s news
there’s no national section
or notion of globe
hospital/ambulance/snowpack/flood
consume the front page
and we’re wonderfully removed
(one feels)
from tanks and Pennsylvania Avenue
the only rumbles here from thunderheads
(also on holiday today)
it’s so easy
to follow the red-white-and-blue chain
of early risers run/walking
one heart-stopping view at a time
through the chute
then tumble onto the county building lawn
to admire the parade’s burros
while the mayor jokes about assets
to lounge in St. Vincent’s shade
with a plate full of hospitality
while the band strums Jackson
and the police officer and firefighter
furtively hold hands
on their way to the trees
to clap and say ooh
at the blue-dotted domes of fire
lighting up the space between
the football field and Antares
it’s far too easy
to shut off the disgust
at the Stars and Bars
in the parade Jeep’s rear window
to imagine there’s no flag now flying
over caged kids
wrapped in foil on concrete floors
with no mother left to call
to pledge allegiance to
this nation of lost souls
more willing to hand the keys
to a dictator than a woman
who love guns more than children
and money most of all
too tempting to be
my four-year-old self again
posing for the paper
fingers faking a needle
dressed up as Betsy Ross
sewing on a star
