When Clarinet Dreams Die, a Poem

I am in 6th grade

sitting on the auditorium stage.

I am pulling off what I

have practiced all week

for Mr. Richards.

Cindy Gregorio, chair 1,

is sucking her reed.

I am tapping my foot feverishly

to keep up with the 

polyrhythmic jazz tune.

If you had been playing like

this the past 2 years,

I could have really made

something of you.

Confused. Not a compliment.

Not an actualization of my potential.

I was way too slow in getting 

my groove with jazz music.

The Time has passed.

It’s too late for you

to join what we do here.