I wonder still how we looked to him
Standing high above a fallow field
Barking out lefts and rights, bulging veins
On a reddened forehead and stomping his feet
At each missed move. He seemed to possess
Ambitions too monumental for talentless creeps
Such as us, the lackluster remnants of dodgeball
Admissions tests. Though none could blame him there
A culture gained through sly and rancid looks
Would drive the dedicated children southward,
Northward, any -ward but towards him,
Who gathered reject after awkward reject
And set their lazy failing feet to marching.
O, what a band we were! By the time
I’d quit officially I hadn’t played
In months. My trumpet’s pipes had sealed shut
Impossible to move, no less, to blow,
And inspired words on the plight of Gabriel
Or flugelhorns in times of war met deaf,
Poisoned and depressed ears, for art seemed not
The goal no more than pleasant bells of sound
And even this we’d not been much accomplishing.
Sore standards like The Star Spangled Banner
Sounded harsh and distempered, akin to darts
Lobbed by luminous idiots with little skill.
Notes and phrases were close enough to bring
The song to our minds, but chiseled melodious offerings
To marble dusts of disappointed parents and siblings.