Sunday, late. The winter dark already coming down. <br />Inside the woodshed door, an early FM tuned to Bangor. <br />Half as old as the backyard oak he's felled—felled, <br />fitted, split—an old man mad for music lugs the chunks in. <br />He turns the volume up, up full: an opera he never saw <br />rises through light snow and marshals its triumphant march. <br />He marches, lifting stiff knees into highstep, marking <br />his own bootprints, shooting his victorious fist <br />against a stand of second growth ranked naked <br />against the sky. He lets the music take him as <br />he assumes the music: entering the city gates <br />he feels the blaze of banners, the shine on breastplates <br />and the women's hair. He marches near the column's head, <br />in his just place. The sun on the lead car is hot, <br />the horses sweat with victory, a victory <br />he hasn't felt in fifty years. Measure upon measure, <br />the music pumps him higher. He marches, marches, <br />through his deep backyard. The chorus soars: <br />the women's voices open every street, their smiles <br />are wide with glory, their lips already moist.<br /><br />Philip Booth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/public-broadcast/
