that old glory she flew so well
like the wet rag she was
all broken bone gone wobble
and no one gave a damn
down to the last drop
we watched her
shrivel up and die
and the only thought
as the spark swelled down
as the light centered, as it dimmed,
faded into scrawly-ash
and blackwhiterainbow tone
was “but I don’t want to change the channel”
Where we went wrong
You have an amazing soul, Jones. Write more please.
Come back tomorrow. — or well, today, really.