At Pride's End

 When your flag's folded
 and the chant's dissolved
 into chatter; so easily lost
 in the traffic; when your march
 has slowed to a walk:

 Where, then,
 does your shame go?

 They won't be tossed,
 won't just slide away.
 Not a crumpled piece of paper.
 Not a shy animal of the night.
 They won't be hidden in the flag,
 won't yield to chanting.

 You'll have to bring them home,
 alone.