-I say, a moving road!-

I would like to suspend

all that I know above my head

inside a cat-faced parade balloon

strung to my wrist, gas-filled

and bobbing

over the pavement’s curb

as the brassy parade passes by.

between the marching bands

the silent, shuffle of footsteps

belonging to inserted afterthoughts
which filled the gaps

was intriguing and often otherworldly.

participants smiling soundlessly,

waving silently, some groupings
with banners held at their waists
strung along a horizontal rod,
material flapping softly before the muted,
gaily clad promoters of their cause.

my position on earth was dictated

by the width of my standing body

at curbside, often clutching a web

of pink cotton-candy which clung

to my mouth and fingertips, the cheeks
of my face and even the stubble of my crewcut.

the clacking Budweiser Clydesdales

seemed benign in the distance but soon

became threatening by their size

and obvious power to maim or kill
if something snapped in their heads.

all it takes is one creative kid with a cherry bomb.

massive piles of manure left behind on the march

were amusingly avoided by the oncoming.

but now and then someone stepped into it.

here, the approaching drum-majorettes,

always stone-faced and lovely, tasseled

white boots gracing their marching feet

were the gold-cup reward for this young

horse manure observer.

the beauties, the adored ones, high-skipping

into mounds of smoldering horse shit,— but

purpose-filled, goal oriented, determined, unflappable,

just the same as me.