I pulled a robin from my throat.
I set it in my child’s red wagon.
My child sat next to the robin red breast
in the red wagon.
She petted the bird like it was a dog.
The robin rolled over for a belly scratch.
I pulled the red wagon out of the parking place
and into a parade.
A parade bereft of clowns.
The parade marshaled several marching bands.
I pulled the red wagon into line
behind the tuba players.
Alabama. Crimson Tide. Um-pah! Um-pah!
Roll Tide. Roll down the street.
The tuba players pushed milky white notes
out of their brass instruments.
Their swiveling marching routine
blended the notes into an aural milkshake.
My child in the red wagon clapped.
She gulped down the music.
The robin sang in competition
rather than in harmony.
When the parade reached our apartment
I bent-arm signaled a right turn.
copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney