I’m four--

the drums are coming to town--

shiny brass buttons

on bright colored cloth,

black leather boots.

Horses--

heads pointed high

with tall angry men.

"Can we go,.

Please, can we go?"

Bands playing marches

stopped at out side;

flags full of stars.

Clowns--

with white painted faces,

side-to-side walk.

"Oh, why can’t we go?"

Alone in the weeds

with my bumblebee jar--

sticks, grasses, and stones.

"I know we’d a gone

if I hadn’t kept askin’.

I’m gonna make my own parade

when I grow up.

Have one every day.

I’ll have a pocket full of donuts.

Never feel bad again."

The bumblebees sort

through the buzz in my head,

hiding secrets away;

away in a place

so deep inside

there’s nothin’ ever can reach--

not the drums,

not the bands.