The night before the big parade,
three in the morning, I leap out of bed
and hop into my slick black pants,
grab my black wool jacket
with the snowy white bib, fumble
for my clarinet: Come, my soul! Let us
vault over all this earthly labyrinth!
But then I hear my father’s voice,
calling down the stairs:
“No, son! No. It’s not time.
You’re still asleep.
You’re still asleep.”