John Sierpinski

March 3rd

The invincible desert winds
blow through our carport,
rattling the fiber glass wall
until it sings out of tune
a belligerent rant, a drunk
man slipping his way
into a moonbeam. The pale
sun, the American flag
stretched straight out
its soiled heart, its dusty
wings. It’s March 3rd
no flying, crying, dying
kites to be seen. Just
a magic wand waving
its middle finger.