Where fog stands thick as the Iron Curtain,
I drive past the V. A. Clinic. The parking lot
empty except for one man out walking and
I barely see the flags. Each one hangs
in a heap like tobacco curing. Each one
awaits the sun and wind and old soldiers.
Monday morning in Appalachian mountains.
My mind is in a heap, ragged, of poor sleep
and thoughts of my boy going overseas.
By midday, the flags will flap and billow.
Little by little, I am cured and seasoned.
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Be always safe,
Karen