On the West Side of a flagpole,
In December's later breaths,
The wind whipped Winter's white quilt
Burnishing words, words, words,
From the ***** metal monument.
Knives and pens had etched
Their love into malleable matrimony
Beneath the flicker of that flag,
But the etchings became wishes
Of Winter's White Wedding.
My fingers grazed the forgetful frost
As muscle memory recalled
A pair of initials and an addition sign.
Fresh drops of condensed ice
Hung within the ridges
Of our four lettered addition problem.
I exhaled a condensed breath
Which sifted towards the pole
then dissipated.
I glanced over as the moths
Attacked the only streetlight
Causing flickers of light
In the starless night sky.
A half second stare
Was a half second too long;
I looked back at the iron pole,
And the letters were gone.
A white wash of frost
Mixed with my exhale,
Covered the West Side of the flagpole.
Pockets of wind snapped in the flag.
I peered up at the streaks of crimson
And field of blue whipping in misery.
The seams of the flag's fabric
Became weathered and torn,
As I walked away from the flagpole—
Tired of dreaming in the stars.
