Poem: At the Lindale, Texas Post Office, I Ask for a Book of Stamps

He hands me the standard issue American flag variety with its red,
its white, its ever-deepening blue. But I am tired, America, tired
of your shouting flags, this flag, all our flags, every—God help us—
flag flying, flag lowered, flag bullet-holed and half-masted.

I ask if he has anything else, wishing flowers, trees, some soft wash
of watercolor, a woman’s vivid face. “Cowboys,” he answers.
“And cowboy hats.” Slaps them down take-it-or-leave-it
on the counter between us. I leave them. Leave the cowboys.

Leave their stupid John Wayne hats. I take my little book
of shrunken flags and step back outside into a sunlit summer—
its spacious grace, its tiny trembling buds of red, great clouds of white
suspended, scattered across the steadfast blue. Two small shining

girls skip past me, trailing their elegant mother, their hair
the color of wrens lifting and falling in the come-and-go wind,
streaming, ribbons of light, waving, waving. My country ‘tis
of thee. I pledge my allegiance.

Dear Readers,

It’s been the greatest pleasure to select poems for the Texas Observer for approximately the past 28 years. Thanks to many editors—Ronnie Duggar, Lou DuBose, Geoffrey Rips, and more—who welcomed the voices of poets in these esteemed pages. I’m making room for a new poetry editor now, with thanks for your readership. And don’t forget, poetry is often a palate-cleanser!

Naomi Shihab Nye
San Antonio