Above every Mairie flaps the Tricolour.
On every lawn, in every yard through the gut
of America – where the Great Plains began
before the farmers came with wheat and pigs
and soya fields – Old Glory flutters.
Above the reception desk in every
riad in Morocco the king’s photo hangs.
Here, things are never that unambiguous.
In a street near the foot of the Downs,
too steep for tables, they have strung bunting
from house to house,