Red Flag Parade

Three curling lot tags sunfade on your window.
Names shed like jackets at a doorway—
each hello upgraded, each past tense on wheels.

Your gifts arrive feathered with thrift glitter,
a sparkle that smears the cup rim, the couch arm,
small proofs your rented costume sheds.

Questions meet the trapdoor of your calendar.
You’re late to yes, early to exit,
your answers all turn signals, no lane change.

By midweek the tells stand tall as August corn:
a borrowed story grown taller overnight,
that “since yesterday” gloss on the leaf.

At the four-way, lights pile to red upon red.
In the glass I’m a passenger of my own face.
I unpin the ribbon, step off the curb on yellow.
I snap the coupon booklet shut.

Low brass mumbling through a cracked reed,
the bright shake of sequins when you shrug—
the parade keeps moving without my feet.

I step out of formation. The crowd closes.
Confetti gutters into wet paper seams.
Your float turns the corner without me.

Boots on, road salt chalking the toes,
I take the long block home,
lighter by what I chose not to carry.