The Small-Town Voice of God

Listen to Michael Chitwood reading this poem.

Band boosters man the cocoa cups.
There’s a handful of steam for anyone
with a quarter, whipped cream

for another nickel. A moment
of silence, blank to fill in,
or not, the rehearsed separation

of brass and woodwinds
at the fifty. Friday night stalls.
We believe we will win

and the scoreboard exclaims
O, O. It’s a coin toss,
heads butting tails in the dirt.

Everyone’s here, so that beyond
the banks of lights no one
hears the cheers go up.