Cold winds snap the flags,
red, white and blue prayers
beating eastward, riding clouds
of clotted black smoke.

The clanging of metal
on metal, the dumb complaint
that drives me to abstraction.

We are living in the future,
driving our driverless cars
beneath the drones that drone
hardly against the bluster.


About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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