flags of reproach

Alan P. Scott - Verses

tattered ensigns

hang listless in the lack of breeze
the shoulda woulda coulda contingent
calls victory again
and retreats at the alarm
pulling on shadows at half mast
after a half-hearted shower
another coffee spoon
another by the hour
commute, commune, soliloquy
and long past sundown strike the colors
tossed, turn
over that same white battlefield
the forces, in darkness, parade again.

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