It’s my turn to buy the kettle corn, so

I wait in line, the glorious chords

Of the band on the field

Ringing in my ears

Like so many elephants, and

Give my money to the man behind the counter,

Receiving my warm bag of perfection

In return.

 

Stadium lights illuminate the darkness, but

Can’t keep away the cold as I

Make my way down shining bleachers

To rejoin my friends, who are

Waiting with cups of hot chocolate,

And matching band jackets,

And smiles.

 

We open the kettle corn.

 

Warmth attaches itself to our fingers,

Warmth and sugar and salt,

And our tongues are assaulted

By the salty-sweet flavor of the treat.

 

The band has finished now, and so we wait,

Huddled like penguins in the semi-darkness,

For the judges to make their decisions,

To decide if the work we’ve done for the past months

Has been worth the glory of first,

But we don’t dwell on that.

Our mouths and minds are too filled with

Warmth and sugar and salt.

 

The other bands do well.

We clap for them, hands sticky, and huddle

Together as the night gets cold.

Then it’s our turn.

They announce our score, but I don’t hear it

As my teeth clamp down on a particularly crunchy kernel.

It doesn’t matter right now, I’ll learn later.

We did well, we know we did well, numbers

And scores can wait until later.

For now, for this moment,

It is just the band, and the warmth,

And the kettle corn.