He hands me the standard issue American flag variety with its red,
its white, its ever-deepening blue. But I am tired, America, tired
of your shouting flags, this flag, all our flags, every—God help us—
flag flying, flag lowered, flag bullet-holed and half-masted.
I ask if he has anything else, wishing flowers, trees, some soft wash
of watercolor, a woman’s vivid face. “Cowboys,” he answers.
“And cowboy hats.” Slaps them down take-it-or-leave-it
on the counter between us. I leave them. Leave the cowboys.
Leave their stupid John Wayne hats. I take my little book
of shrunken flags and step back outside into a sunlit summer—
its spacious grace, its tiny trembling buds of red, great clouds of white
suspended, scattered across the steadfast blue. Two small shining
