The Fugue States of Americana

I guess when that thing means something to you, you want to put it someplace meaningful. Maybe not over your garage, but on your bumper instead, or your wall, or your back. Maybe you have it on your checks, if you still have checks. Maybe you pin it to your lapel, if you still wear a lapel. Maybe someday somebody chisels it into your tombstone or sticks it in the ground above you because they know it means something to you. Maybe, but I can’t say for sure. I don’t know what it’s like for it to mean something to you, because I don’t know if it’s ever meant anything to me.  

I used to study it, swear to it. I used to hold it, fold it, wave it. I’ve seen it worn, and torn, and burned. I’ve seen people fight and cry and die over it. I’ve seen people fall in love under it, but I’ve never understood it. 

So I just look at it. I look at it, unsure what it could possibly mean to someone but glad that it means something, and hoping that I do, too.