Parade

Say, oh! It must be some sort of a Day! Streets are bristling in baskets and laughter. Shop fronts floating in banners, and somewhere.... The concrete under our feet Throbs with beginning, distant beat. Motorcycle putt Two by two Stern-faced riders Dark in blue Legions of boots and brown, Their arms fling high and back Hats cocked, unfurling like salute. Swing stick switches Left foot...right! With the snap A silken tassel twitches And the horns behind the column crack Suddenly, the breathless beating air! Snatches of the melody are familiar. Golden trumpets raise their throats to catch the sun, Blaring open-mouthed triumphant chorus- Good, we are good! Strong, we are strong! Warriors, honorable and glorious! The drumbeat measures out in disappearing lines Gradually, gently diminishing to perspective. The taste of glory ages and dries upon the years Where crumpled paper scrapes along the wind And traffic lights go red and green again.