nostalgia

There're a lot of flagpoles without flags in the neighbourhood.

A symbol of another time, I suppose.

A symbol of a simpler time,

when caring about your country was a thing.

The poles rust,

but at least we've got seven hundred channels on the television.

The flags sit folded in the bottom of cardboard boxes in attics,

in garages,

in closets,

forgotten,

but at least we can Instagram pictures of our suppers.

In this world of disposable everything, 

no-one knows how to properly dispose of a flag - 

so they don't.

The poles rust,

the flags sit folded in permanent storage,

but at least we can make phone calls from the produce aisle,

at the park,

in church,

wherever,

whenever,

to whomever.

There was a time before selfies, before twerking, 

before hashtags, before the Twittersphere,

before celebrity supercouple nicknames,

when you had to wait until you got home to make a phone call.

A time when you checked your mailbox for letters.

A time when you waited eagerly

for your favourite television programme to air.

No-one binge-watched anything.

Now, there're a lot of flagpoles without flags in the neighbourhood.

The poles rust, and the flags sit in storage,

symbols of another time,

a simpler time.

A time before hacked cellphones and leaked sexts.

A time when we looked one another in the eye

instead of staring into smartphone screens.

FaceTime was actually face time.

Flags flew then,

symbols of a simpler time.