There are frogs in the kitchen
As the percolator burps its brew
In the quiet of these rooms
It's a noise.
Out the window, cup in hand
I spy a flag unfurled in the breeze
Lightly waving in the glow of
Early morning sunlight
It's a symbol taking symbolic action
On a day we're remarking that
America is not for sale
Will we be heard in the quiet
Of these rooms,
Of these streets?
Tamara, really 