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.