Western Movement

each cello plucked its strings
and conductors readied their
hand-picked wands.

the silky moment over,
the brass collided with strings
and wilted dandelions perked up
to listen.

jumbled notes criss-crossed
attic floors on Main Street,
and no one moved much.

Old Eddie rocked on his porch,
and the hot dog shop shut down
again, its mustard, ketchup, pickle
monotony turned to wriggles of yogurt
so youngsters could keep good
health inside.

a rap or two and the focused crew
drew breath and started,
its July Fourth music tumbling
through the catch-basins of stale
Slurpies and older folks plugged
their ears, avoiding the deaf notes
of countless moles patrolling
the innards of the park.