When our semi-conductor <br />Raised his baton, we sat there <br />Gaping at Marche Militaire, <br />Our mouth-opening number. <br />It seemed faintly familiar <br />(We'd rehearsed it all that winter), <br />But we attacked in such a blur, <br />No army anywhere <br />On its stomach or all fours <br />Could have squeezed through our crossfire. <br /> <br />I played cornet, seventh chair, <br />Out of seven, my embouchure <br />A glorified Bronx cheer <br />Through that three-keyed keyhole stopper <br />And neighborhood window-slammer <br />Where mildew fought for air <br />At every exhausted corner, <br />My fingering still unsure <br />After scaling it for a year <br />Except on the spit-valve lever. <br /> <br />Each straight-faced mother and father <br />Retested his moral fiber <br />Against our traps and slurs <br />And the inadvertent whickers <br />Paradiddled by our snares, <br />And when the brass bulled forth <br />A blare fit to horn over <br />Jericho two bars sooner <br />Than Joshua's harsh measures, <br />They still had the nerve to stare. <br /> <br />By the last lost chord, our director <br />Looked older and soberer. <br />No doubt, in his mind's ear <br />Some band somewhere <br />In some music of some Sphere <br />Was striking a note as pure <br />As the wishes of Franz Schubert, <br />But meanwhile here we were: <br />A lesson in everything minor, <br />Decomposing our first composer.<br /><br />David Wagoner<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-junior-high-school-band-concert/
