Slush pulp and crushed salt by metre
rise between the woolen man and me.
Lo, he’s paced a thirty count, and stopped
two-footed, waiting for the traffic light.
“Aloof,” he’d said like a roadside apple sale,
anemic, vegan, pushed to a gravel shoulder.
Now he’s the stronger grunt. I wave and wave.
“Uncertain,” I say and, lousy, smirk at his tracks.
Flag chops can straggle for weeks, but arms
can wave an hour only, then calcium
like plates will rip them down. So nod
and amble off; or else refashion flag to cape,
and prop my arm like a rusting weapon
on your shoulder, and sight and shoot a kiss.