Band Camp

In the joys of summer's warm
embrace, the white sweat that
fell from eyes to toes, our
Camelbacks with blue straws
at the ready, we marched.

Dead-heat mornings filled with
the sounds of instruments,
the klaxon horns of battlements
and the damp, drunk smells of
our carefully-cut green gridiron.

Midday filled with marching
marching, and more marching,
as we weaved the black parking
lots paved with cement that raged
our feet, hard as black diamond.

We ate our dinners in sweaty
groups that warranted more
than a quick stare. So we would
usually answer questions, they
perhaps continued wondering why.

At night we practiced again
and again, our show some theme
of recent memory, a film or
song, naught but spread pearls,
If for a second, from them.

The far-off cries of football practice
reminded us of those special Friday
nights we prepared for. The hot dogs,
big crowds, wins and losses.
Was it for them or us, I wonder.

Or the tournaments in which we
marched, archaic scoring that
merited much beyond our control.
Our feet moving in concert, our
minds as one, somehow tabulated.

We went home late at night. The
sun long deciding to slumber.
So home again, and dreams of
Another day in band camp.