I pledge allegiance to the flag Of swallows fluttering over the fields, To the fields fallow and worked, To willows but not to their weeping, To certain towns crucified On raillines in Missouri, To their bartenders tying up Their hair while they wait For the first skeezie drinkers to show up, To skeezie drinkers, Their flannel shirts their mothers Bought them, pieces of cardboard Framing out the collars, To landscapes dramatic and undramatic, Graphs of hills demonstrating No statistical trends, To the hands of the elderly Forgotten by their families, Lost in the bird-loud sunrooms of their minds, To their minds like birds In a neglected aviary, To Illinois and its dead presidents Buried under treated grass, Their cold, unimaginative tombs, To the Main Streets of little towns, Their ravenous parking meters, To the tarnished forks of lightning That dine on my homeland, To the keys the drunk kid coughs up, To how poorly he sleeps in his truck, To his truck. I pledge allegiance to all these things But not to your flag. I prefer my stars be numberless.
Beautiful poetry. I especially like the part
"Graphs of hills demonstrating
No statistical trends,"
I see that in front of me immediately.
Great write.