There was a parade

There was a parade that day,
and the winds blew the flags
around their poles and into
their bearers' faces. The keys
on my clarinet were cold, and
the mouthpiece made me gag.
The reed was rotting and old,
and my dry lips were careful
not to catch a splinter.

I told myself to stay in the center,
not to drift my frame
into my neigbors. But my bell
bumped a floutist when her steps
stayed in place, and one more moment
I would have been on top of her.
He was in the grandstand, and his eyes
were on me as we halted
our procession.
His hands shivered. They were bare.
They shivered, it seemed,
a tiny absolution,
dozens of rapid crosses
like an erratic priest.

I heard the crowd cheer us,
and the drums marked the silence
when Mr. Maples's hand cut the air.
I kept on playing, hoping
everyone would see
every other pair of eyes
that chose to look at me.