Locker rooms reek of sneakers
and sweat socks, but
band rooms have their scent
as well. Brass and spit,
plush cases marked
with cork grease or valve oil,
dry cleaned uniforms
never quite as sanitized
as they pretend.
The sniff in the nostrils
is like a reed on the tongue
of New Orleans jazz,
the touch of mouth piece
and lips, nubs of the ball
on the dribblers digits,
the liturgist's sacrament.
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