4th and Columbia (Fantasy Challenge)

If I knew I could die today
I would hide behind the catalpa
at 4th and Columbia,
two-forty-three after school
when the high school bandies
scuff pigeon fluff
from hiccuping bricks
in broken snare time.

I'd press my breasts
against the elongated pods
and wait for the music to pass,
for the man tapping sticks
behind the ragtag corps,
a penned eagle rising
from cutoff jean leg,
black Einstein hair
wired under tattered bandana.

The troupe would turn corner,
crisp steps out of time
but this is a small town, man.
They do their best.

I would let them high step
past my cracked stucco house
on 4th and Columbia,
let those belly shirt
flute girls pretend to play,
chubby euphonium boy
trip random air molecules
until Eagle Man stops
shouting big city instruction,
catches my thigh
clad in fishnet hopes
and catalpa sap.

The band would march on, man,
right back to podunk high
while I demonstrate fine
trombone technique
to my music teacher lover,
back against stalking tree,
one hand keeping eagle's beak
from calling our corner.