Poetry- Dana St Mary

the flag keeper

he walks slowly to the place
with that solemnity
that cadavers bring, and
leans the heavy ladder
on the mast-like pole.

a tilted head and
gooseflesh show
that today is windless,
breezeless,
grey, and
dumb.

the climb is short, just
twelve foot or so.

the turnbuckle holds the night
in its iron hand,
and unwinding the stiffened line
makes his fingers
ache.

he looks out at the highway.
all the kindly folks
are speeding home, or not.

to work?
to hide?
to smile and nod?
to cry an...

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