A Flag

As I hung the flag, I stepped back and surveyed
with a respectful glint in my eye and a sorted pride swelling.
I marked what I saw:
No great feats or duties,
no sullen trenches or dirtied heroes.
I saw no crowds and heard no speeches,
there were no statues or mourners,
there were no noble citizens:
young dreamers willing a risk
for a chance at erecting a difference,
there was just a long sheet of cloth.

Red stripes flowing down,
draping tight against the chalky cheep drywall,
the nylon bright where it caught the dim light from the lamps.
The blue field brimmed with white stars to the left,
more cascading stripes on the right.
I hung my flag so it faced the floor,
a standing, vertical reminder of its service,
for my brother, who flew it horizontally atop of his craft in war.

He was home safe.
I did not need vivid memories
of what the flag stood for playing in my eyes,
I had the flag there,
The Flag of my brother,
The Flag of my father,
And, someday when I would contribute
to its constant molding, my flag.
And that is why it is on my wall.
And that is why it is all I need to see.