The field commander, in his regal busby,
tosses his corded mace into the air.
He, too, excites the eye. Just as the color guard,
those shako hats and twirling sabres,
trot out our choreographed
tribute to something. The Hundred Years’ War?
Boom shaka-lacka lacka, boom shaka-lacka lacka,
I’m part of a fantail movement
stepping time in the eye of a peacock feather.
Hear me, up there in the bleachers?
I may be the least of all the piccolos.
But mine’s the tune you’ll whistle as you leave.
Now have all the mosquito trucks come by
to prepare the grounds.
And now has the unnatural grass
been freshly mowed and limed.
The drumline has reviewed all day
wheeling a battery of tympani without a glitch.
If you heard a chirping flycatcher out of place,
that was not me. It was the reeds.
For I save all my wind to expend uptempo
on Close Encounters of the Third Kind Theme
by the maestro, Mr. John Williams.
We do a scramble pattern then.
That’s when I imagine I am to be struck
by the first trombone, like a turgid wet wiener
thumping my shower bum
when coach averts his supervisory gaze.
Or, abject under the walnut tree,
he’ll make me practice the Overture to Tommy.
A junior who slides through valves like that,
who works the phrase with such aplomb,
will surely be able to play me something
from the Great American Songbook,
be it Body & Soul or Jelly Jelly. Anything will do.
Except I Can’t Get Started with You.
& just for the record I’ll have you know
I play on the football team, too.
I just don’t play on all of them at once.