Parade

I am singing in a field & it is cold. Last night I wished
the new year would hurry out & I could get on with this.
This morning my mother called & at the end of the hour
told me each January is a fresh start. I am in a cold field
& it is singing. Last week it snowed in Texas & if there
is a shovel trade it boomed. This afternoon it was warm
underneath & bones were dancing to a transient's lullaby.
There is singing in a field & I am cold. Tomorrow
under the bandstand they will present their awards
& the music will flow like fuel from a broken tank.
I will watch from my hiding place: a hat full of matches
& a pocketful of holes. I will say a quick prayer & send
the whole thing sky high. Good night. Goodbye.