The generals were coming
all the way from Washington,
four stars between them.
Food was ordered, carpets cleaned.
Then we turned, together,
to take in the sight beyond the window.
Our flags hung limply on their poles –
three beacons of power
that had seen better days.
The wind whipped up, flailing their tattered hems.
Like the string you find
on the bottom of your sweater,
which is pulled taught, for a moment,
The cry went out: Unacceptable!
with a rush of orders.
The generals would feast their eyes
on only the best and brightest.
The new flags were hoisted,
with a day to spare,
and, within an hour,
the rain had them soaked through.
Red, bleeding into white,
rendered them a violent shade of pink.
The generals arrived, and our flags waved –
small, ubiquitous, unnoticeable,
except for their striking resemblance
to a Barbie Dream Home.