Band day

I don’t even believe in marching bands.

There’s no reason that they should exist.

But I wondered if God might have been

the very tall soldier playing a snare

in the Army band from Fort Riley.

He was at least a head taller than everyone else.

And Jesus looked like a young, black drum major.

Who knew she would be a high school girl?

But by the holy ghost,

I wept and prayed,

when the fat girl fell down to her knees

at the very end of the parade,

on the last of the summer’s green grass in South Park,

breathless.

And then a short skinny girl took up

her golden baritone sax

and they walked slowly away,

arms around each other.

When the music died

all the marching bands

walked off the street.

I sat and waited for the world to end.

Then I stuck a feathered plume into my hat,

and called it macaroni,

and I hitched a ride on the last yellow school bus

for McClouth.

For some moments, I had had some doubts.