Ode to Middle School Band

All shuffle into this stuffy
school gym to behold
the clumsy miracle of hands—
where to put them, how, when.
When the conductor stands,
whatever does she intend
to wrench from these tweens
in starched white shirts, black
slacks? From brass, winds,
that wide-eyed, whip-thin
percussionist in the back,
gripping his mallet like a bent
bayonet? O bless each Oh
crap intake of breath as notes
begin to clatter and crash.
As proud parents squint
into programs and younger
siblings groan for snacks.
Here is the opus of our youth,
our future, of all that is holy
and wholly ill-equipped.
Drugstore roses collapse
on scratched bleachers. Each
child their own gleaming
instrument of light.