Marching Band

The taste of reed —
a dry and tangy mix of sandpaper and sweat —
and the cool slick feel of rain-dampened fingers
sliding on the keys….
I remember this.
Not the music, but
the too-bright football lights
and the weight of a blue fur helmet.
A happy-vague pride, I remember too.
From not screwing up, not breaking stride
or rank or whatever it was called.
My life was whole
when I marched in step.
Accepted, calm, real — I didn’t
know of “flow” then, had never heard of
zen, but
I knew happiness when I marched it.

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