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Old Glory

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A patriot

has the duty

to salute. Stand at every

anthem. Rifle

at the ready.

 

Now begin to count the

stripes & stars

stitched into your lapel.

Say the bars are a lucky

13—a paean of

ups and downs,

an elevator

that brings you closer

to a floor that’s never there,

on every blue-moon

Friday of the year.

 

Know one  is indeed

the loneliest number

of all, locked inside a sun,

that everyone around it

looks the same—

 

there, in a hunter

riding shotgun

in Dakota—North

and South;

 

and here, on the ice

in Minnesota,

the fish of 10,000

lakes (yes-yes, off by

eighteen-forty-

two).

 

See, what’s excessive

doesn’t rate its own

existence, rounded off

like sands &

grains, with nowhere

that can hold them,

 

that if a galaxy

blinks & goes,

you’d have no

idea at all

that it was there.

 

In Mercy, Alabama,

Quinton Mills

was struck from behind

by a truck.

There was one-less

that was listed

on the U-Haul sign next day,

 

the village population

stuck on six-hundred

ninety-three,

 

without a painter

or a paint-

brush to be

found,


none to sew the

sadness

on the mortician’s

callous face.




Andreas Gripp

January 13, 2025


Andreas Gripp

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