The marching band has fallen;
spinning batons bounce between the drums.
A cawing breaks the silence:
“Let’s clean this up ‘fore Jesus comes”.
Flags slap hot air in summer,
ice cream melts on the thick black road slag.
Rucksacks packed with cellophane,
piled, broken in gridiron tag.
Riddled, Ritalin rejects
stare doe-eyed at the great balding sun;
mouths gaunt around half-formed wit,
future stolen ‘fore barrel spun.
Mop the squeaking floor bone dry.
Bleachers stacked hide covered, rolling eyes.
Sleep well in Punxatawney, Phil,
whose galleried shots we despise.