Brass Taps

Able lungs, willing lips,
at ten I was intrigued by
Grandfather’s shiny trombone.
I pushed then pulled the slide,
heard oom-pah-pah, wah-wah
like so much Doppler Effect.
Not music, but trombone
moans in the dining room,
with an old Philco radio
and lots of knobs.
I marched
in a marching band,
saw Sheridan, his Army
of the Potomac, and I
in regiment held horn
askew up to the sun,
as glints off brass
speared laser-like,
and music played though
I had not a dram
of music expertise, nor
any military discipline.
Father grinned
and Grandpa laughed
as I lay wounded mortally,
but did not care at all,
for life was life
and death was death,
and taps was well
within my means.


30 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
3-3-16