Sunday Mornings, Summer 1965

When I Was Seven

John Philip Souza blares

The little box record player


Perched next to the screen door

Our bare feet march

Down the concrete


Shaded and cool still

Into the damp green grass


Little skinny arms outstretched

Linda holds a triangle of

The Flag.

We stop.

Standing at attention

The flag pole looms.

I unwind the rope

Clipping the hooks into the

Stars and Stripes’ grommets.

Daddy hoists the flag

Peggy and I unfurl it

Holding it carefully

Lest it touch the ground.

We watch it rise.

It floats up

Until the wind snaps


Wide and free.


One big brown hand

Three little pink hands


About face!

Marching back to breakfast