Paul Reyns has been published in a handful of venues.
Stars and Strictures
The first time I saw a Confederate flag
was on the back of my uncle’s pick-up
after we got out at the hardware store.
“Nice,” I said, because the paint job
was in fact impressive.
“Bet you don’t see those too often,” he told me.
I took a photo with my camera and sent it to my father.
In the lumber yard my uncle took the call.
“Are you kidding,” he said, “it won’t get him shot
– this is the South.”
“What was that all about,” I said, carrying two-by-fours under my arm.
“Your father thinks I’m going to turn you into a plantation owner.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” I told him.
We fixed a tenant’s door frame.
Then my uncle went to Walmart to pick up labor.
When he returned he pulled me aside and told me they were Mexican.
“They won’t know the difference,” he said.
I asked him what he meant.
After that, I gave one of them my toolbelt.
We worked until the sun went down and then kept on.
Dinner we ate on top of the folded-down flag.
“Been here five years,” the taller one said.
“Isn’t anywhere we get better treatment than with your paps.”
I let him make the connection.
Do I still ride in my uncle’s rig?
There’s not a day goes by
I don’t tell myself I know better.