Sunday at Village Inn
Sunday morning at Village Inn,
coffee or orange juice? I am asked.
Every time, every day, those two drinks.
What if I want a milkshake for breakfast?
No, that is for dinner with your
chicken, bacon, ranch sandwich and french fries.
Always the same. Each. Time
is a constant, or is it
really? The clock always ticks at the same
rate – sixty beats per minute. A
metronome keeping the pace –
the pace of a walker, a jogger, a runner, a marcher?
Trumpets play too quickly, their egos
force it. Flutes play too slowly, their fingers
ache. What are the drums even doing?
at different rates, in different shoes, but still
to the same, old tune. Never
updating the song that plays when
the sports team scores their ball in the endzone
or the pep rally begins with the batons in the air.
Until that day that
The band director came.
The one that took the repeating
notes of the sheet music and switched them up.
The one that took that old song,
burned it to ash, then like
morphed them into a
New show to bring the audience to their knees.
Yet, in the end,
when the trophy is given
and the players celebrate their first place banner,
What do they do?
Have their milkshakes and
chicken, bacon, ranch sandwich with french fries,
at Village Inn, on a Sunday afternoon.
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