They said I was depressed —

long time ago my mother spoke those words to me

as we walked down a pretty shopping street in Montluel

I'm not — she told me then — I don't feel anything at all

Similarly, she said that she was not in pain

From leg-foot issues that stabbed and made her gasp

'Til surgery at last addressed the errant limb

Not pain, she calmly said, just numbness

Her so-called pain threshold deemed so very high

(Some say pain thresholds do not, in fact, exist) —

But anyway, it was an odd experience with a flag,

that somehow brought all that back into mind

My husband, flag enthusiast, had mounted one

Long time ago, on railing of our deck, and also

Hung the tricolore out there each year for Bastille Day

Now he is dead, my mother too, and I love flags

Yet in this so strange spike-crowned year I've strangely erred

Kind of know why, and also kind of don't

The upper thing that holds the flag has weakened

let the banner fall, down to the lowest level of the pole

Although I took it down and fixed it once

The problem just so swiftly reoccurred

And somehow, though it wasn't all that hard

And even though I'd figured out the why and how

And bought the needed cogle elements for home repair

I couldn't, wouldn't . . . at least didn't fix it more

Just watched it, or most times averted eyes

Day by day, week in, week out — month after month

Saw it collapsed, like quick-shed underwear, out there alone

improper, muddled, scrunched up, disrespected

Crushed down, maybe getting torn or soiled

In that sad sorry lowly unloved state

Yesterday, reluctant, I slowly trudged outside

Into this strange-for-springtime too-hot too-dry heat

Thought, guiltily, perhaps out there I could revive

Some heat-shocked potbound plants with extra watering

At least should try, mere decency toward living things

So helplessly neglected, tight-trapped in their pots —

Once out there somehow it felt possible, to my surprise

To make myself address the crumpled flag once more

Thought there would be no hope for it

But seemed strangely intact, not even stained

Despite long months of cruel neglect

Or no, not cruel, not that — a numb neglect

A mother-daughter kind of thing perhaps

In any case, adjustment of the claspy thing

Up top proved not so difficult, seemed to work

At least, the flag is up and flying free again

Though, as ever, prevailing courtyard winds

Do swirl out there, turn pennant's white and red

To tangling with hanging baskets hanging out nearby

Or even — wrongly/weirdly — spiral-gripping its own pale silver pole