The parade goes on in midsummer.
A local band marches. Familiar marches
until one lone saxophone cuts loose
and wails the blues. A moment of silence
then the rest of the band finds the beat
and follows along.
Suddenly nothing is mechanical any more.
One feeling is exchanged for another,
all in the shift of key.
Marching turns to dance.
Lock step turns to sway.
and for you at least,
the music becomes true.
About this poem
I am sitting at my favorite diner. Thursday mornings are slow and the cook/owner is playing blues, loud, slow and raunchy. I love all music, but I think I love the blues the most. Soul music, for my soul at least.
I wrote the poem to the picture, which was taken at a local parade. The event as written never happened, but in the picture it looks like it COULD have happened. And how many times in our life had the change of one note changed everything? In my life, often, often, often.