Confederate Flag Poem

In the same way cloud and morning moon
ride a river's back, somehow hanging on
to the slippery saddles that slide beneath,
so the image of the good flag lingers,
rippling red and starry over years.
How the clenched heart aches to be lifted
once again in such a wind to glory,
raised like fist above the head
not from loser's rather winner's stand.
But no real battles left, just daily work,
the only struggle not to bite
the boss's finger when he sticks it
in your face. Yes, how good
the blood of such a victory would taste.

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