I tug at my dress and put my torch out,
close my eyes and stare out at the Atlantic Ocean
once again.
I have watched the British
and the cavalry,
the slavery,
huh
and the parades.
This year, I sighed.
Gun shots rang out
but it wasn't minutemen.
A bird flew by
its right wing straight
its left wing bent
and it went back into
its cage, after flying free for fifty years.
I tug at my dress, this old thing—
a French robe
made when the world smiled
and Romantic ideals of democracy
were the rage.
Now, I just sigh and hope
for better days
for everyone.
Irony is in my backbone
yet in my stern face
I still try.
