political fire

you tell me: wrapped in an american flag,
eyes cocked on political fire, what is a non-believer to do?

if, of course, i can still ask the question.
you never know, in a land bleeding red, what
mores march to the gleaming white tabernacle.
what inquisition ensues.

or if i’m too blue, an undue sad, for all the
power peaceably handed like a torch
to men who prefer no light—should i
dull to gray?

but then we’re back to civil war, it seems
and all the wrong side, bound to
bleed red through the fabric of four years.

perhaps it is enough not to stain the carpets
of our founding fathers.