No Guts, No Glory

the wind shudders breath

sinuses weigh like clouds

gravel nails flay palms

–for the hearts–

and a cumulus of tears

bitchslaps its stratum:

–condensed sadness

–recycled faith

–evaporated belief

a striped embroidery

of furled hope

*plus asterisks*

that still runs up the flagpoles,

most mornings

–partly, at least–

shoddy workmanship

~factory assembled legs~

& inept handling

catching Old Glory at half-mast.

©Karen Robiscoe