The smashed cookies on the ground
bring back a snow-flaked flurry of memories.
banging the tambourine on my palm,
lying on the hallway floor
watching the elementary students in the orange light,
in their feathered, polka-dotted dresses
and crisp red-black-gold suits,
miniature versions of the worlds nationalities.
I stuff stacks of programs in my dry hands
trying not to look like I'm caring.
But inside I'm still that youngish girl lightly tapping the bass drum
and hoping that nobody's looking.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 8:20 PM UTC
The smashed cookies on the ground
bring back a snow-flaked flurry of memories.
banging the tambourine on my palm,
lying on the hallway floor
watching the elementary students in the orange light,
in their feathered, polka-dotted dresses
and crisp red-black-gold suits,
miniature versions of the worlds nationalities.
I stuff stacks of programs in my dry hands
trying not to look like I'm caring.
But inside I'm still that youngish girl lightly tapping the bass drum
and hoping that nobody's looking.
'ere's my Christmas concert poem.
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