Your brother bought us mugs
with the Union Jack on them,
not knowing his way
in the world of signs and emblems,
though for dates, for weird facts
he’s second to none.
It’s dinning your head
on a stone to tell him, the same
as trying to espouse
that he’s not addicted to Coca-Cola,
or that, because we’re older,
it doesn’t prove we’re rich;
strict meanings adhere to things
and flake from others
without rhyme or reason,
a comprehensible frame: to him
a mug is a mug
and the Union Jack a flag,
though, to be fair to your brother,
they’re a good size
and perfect for coffee,
and though they live
in the darkest bowels of the cabinet,
knowing, we use them anyway.