Kit Carson Park
Revolutionary War cannons frozen
n time, pointed for 75 years at a ghostly enemy.
A bronze Kit Carson sits
his horse proudly and points
to the Raton Pass of the old Santa Fe Trail.
His noble brow and heroic pose
deny his driving the Navajos
on the Long Walk.
His cape of pigeon droppings
an editoral of unpleasant reality.
The bandstand fits the head
of the hill like a crown.
John Philip Sousa
fills the Sunday summer nights.
The spectators manning the cannons
rally behind Carson and
march around the promenade.
Pied Pipers from the grave
are soon joined
by children drafted
from every part of the park.
Round and round they march as if
the parade were the hands
of a clock well wound
by martial music.
Children climb to the bannister
and peer through the lattice work
to see the mail carrier
and butcher of yesterday
who are tonight's military musicians.
Home-town renditions of Sousa
blend with happy child noises.
Many roll down
the grassy slops of the park
and try hard to miss blanket-sitting families.
The soft coolness of the summer evening
carries great smells from Lee's Barbecue.
Young lovers walk
the side walk around the park,
looking for a fleeting moment
of privacy to exchange a quick kiss.
The concert a listening treat for some,
visiting time for others.
Neighbors on Arizona Avenue sit in
their front yards for a private concert.
Sousa makes every summer Sunday night
the 4th of July,
a time of hope and contentment.
And for the perfect ending of a special day,
a dish of Colorado Creamery
vanilla ice cream.
Frozen in time,
the band concerts of my youth.
Do I have to say goodbye
to this memory and
hear the concerts in my old age?
Goodnight, John Philip.
Keep the ghosts and me marching.