Now Who Doesn't Love a Marching Band?

by Ray Yost

BLINDING glare from the glistening brass
Pin-strip pants with bandied legs pumping
Hot, sweaty, scratchy wool coats.
Now, who doesn't love a marching band?
(the people carrying the tubas, that's who.)

The cadence of the parade
Echoes my own internal tramping song
I toot sonorously with each measured pace.
Why… did… I… ever… want… to… play…
The… fuck… ing… tuba?

Ting ling tingaling ling ting

The triangle sounds fill the gaps in between the

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM

Of the big bass drum and
The shrieking, shrill, whistling of the wailing horns.

SMACK, SMACK, SMACK
A hundred heels strike
The sticky, sweating, sweltering asphalt
As the marching column slows to turn a corner
My own internal marching song continues (as always)
Why… didn't… I… learn… to… play…
The… fuck… ing… triangle?

CRACK!

The bullet whizzed and singed and sang from unseen corners
Then bits of bone and brain
Splashed and splattered on the snare drum drummer
The crowd gasped as the triangle fell silent,
Spinning, falling, stumbling
Into a heap of damp, sweaty wool.

CLACK, CLACK, CLACK

A hundred heels, the turn completed
Marched in the parade.
FOOOT, TOOOOT, FOOOT-A-TOOOT
My tuba sounded joyously in rhyme with
My new internal marching song

Some…one… hates… the… tri…angle… but…
No… one… ever… shoots… the… tuba… player…
And… if… they… did…
My… tuba… makes… good… body… armor.

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