by David Wagoner

    When our semi-conductor

    Raised his baton¹， we sat there

    Gaping² at Marche Militaire，

    Our mouth-opening number.

    It seemed faintly familiar

    （We'd rehearsed it all that winter），

    But we attacked in such a blur³，

    No army anywhere

    On its stomach or all fours

    Could have squeezed through our crossfire⁴.

    I played cornet， seventh chair，

    Out of seven， my embouchure

    A glorified⁵ Bronx cheer

    Through that three-keyed keyhole stopper

    And neighborhood window-slammer

    Where mildew⁶ fought for air

    At every exhausted⁷ corner，

    My fingering still unsure

    After scaling it for a year

    Except on the spit-valve lever.

    Each straight-faced mother and father

    Retested his moral fiber⁸

    Against our traps and slurs⁹

    And the inadvertent whickers

    Paradiddled by our snares¹⁰，

    And when the brass¹¹ bulled forth¹²

    A blare fit to horn over

    Jericho two bars sooner

    Than Joshua's harsh measures，

    They still had the nerve to stare.

    By the last lost chord， our director

    Looked older and soberer.

    No doubt， in his mind's ear

    Some band somewhere

    In some music of some Sphere

    Was striking a note as pure

    As the wishes of Franz Schubert，

    But meanwhile here we were：

    A lesson in everything minor¹³，

    Decomposing¹⁴ our first composer.

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