What’s on that young man’s strange mind as he stands
barefoot in Bermuda shorts, shirtless, thin
as balding cypress, in pouring rain, hands
gripping that metal pole, that pole gripping
an American flag, flag and lad’s slick frame
fighting storm’s assaulting wind, in that street
empty except for flooding tide? He came
from nowhere it seems, his fleeting bare feet
sliding to a stop in front of my stock-
ade, his choosing to stand like Liberty’s
son, challenging deluge, shoulder-length locks
sailing behind him, chasing memories
desperate to catch up. Sadly, when great calm
returns, we’ll still beg the oligarchs for alms.
Roger Armbrust
June 27, 2020
