Marching on a field of white
lines striping the way.
Piping on my clarinet-
marching band back in the day.

Drilled through the heat - harsh light,
sets perfected by the night.
Playing solo’d make me fly
but together we can cry.

Move as one, hitting dots, our bodies spoke music,
the songs we once knew, now distant and elusive.
Reeds left unopened, my mind's gone acoustic-
echoes remaining from memory once lucid.