Escort Officer Duty

1.

My son conducts
his five-inch flag
like a maestro.

Then, a little
separation. Here,
he says, his arm
outstretched to me.
I take the broken
staff.

He holds the frayed
fabric like a mask,
eyes on the backs
of stars.

He delights behind
capsized colors.
I bite down No.

                 2.

                 The hum
                 of the projector:
                 how to salute
                 during transfer.

                 I can tell you now
                 where the star field
                 is supposed to rest
                 on a closed casket.

                 Taught to fold —
                 taut.

3.

He’s three, younger
than his brother
who is yelling
from the muddy double slide.

Like roll call,
he is summoned.

AWOL, he ignores.

His morning work:
sitting on mulch chips,
folding triangles.

Pale, chubby fingers
tucking edges tighter,
making old glory,

like a secret note
passed in class.