The flag stands out-the warm wind blows-
Fickle in strength, but constantly visiting.
It speaks of rain. The flag I see from the 6th floor
studio. The image divided by screen windows
into tiny sectors. Compositely framed by worn
metal-adorned with stray paints, prints and splatter.
Traditional red, white, blue-also purple and yellow.
I spray fixitive again, then curl up close,
pressing outside, trying to breathe cleanish air.
A whiff of chemicals, a cough, a sudden echo
resounding cannon-like on cement and glass.
Distantly I see the grimy T, I watch as it flows
rather chokes, on the city's congestion.
The flag whips, catching newfound attention.
Faintly I hear tourists ask "Where does this shuttle go?"
"To Alewife? To Haymarket? To Symphony or Brookline?"
They wear red, white, blue; T-shirts emblazoned with
a striped flag, girls in pigtails with starry blue bows.
It is style over statement as they miss a memorial plaque-
too busy with seeking directions, tokens, souveniers.
It is a style, not a statement, and few seem to know.
Some ask for the truth, but no one knows.
Such a grand old flag, what does it mean?
Everyone says something
but nobody knows.