Promised land,
where dreams are big and hearts are bold.
August
is unforgiving in Indiana,
hot
like the breath of a panting dog,
and
beads of sweat already roll
behind
my uniform, navy pants
dissected
by a gold stripe. Before we go on,
Nick
will yell one more time to keep
the
gold straight; but for now
we
stand together, the long blue line,
hummingbirds
perched in our hearts
here
at the end- and the beginning.
Next
to me, Jerry’s reflection
distorts
in my trumpet bell
straight
from the shower where
in
between soap and shampoo
I’d
slapped polish on and blown
water
past sticking valves
so
both the instrument and I
emerged
shining, the labors
of
our summer scrubbed away.
They
give us the signal and
we
breathe together,
push
shared air through piping
and
after eleven weeks
purifying
in the furnace,
forged
and re-forged as if
by
a skilled smith’s steady hand,
it
finally alters to become
gold,
an invisible shimmer felt
best
with eyes closed.
Lungs
burn, capacity
reached
emptied refilled
seeking
each note’s unblemished
center,
one voice
onehundredseventy
voices
our
voice.
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