Busing

Friday nights in winter after the halftime show
we shivered on metal bleachers, the cold seeping into our legs,
wind numbing the gloveless fingers positioned on metal keys.
After the 50^th first down, the scoreboard blazed the halting numbers 4, 3, 2, 1.
Then we piled onto the warm and waiting bus, peeling our soldier suits
off damp t-shirts and shorts or jeans

While football players and cheerleaders rode home from the big game
in separate buses
We huddled close, holding hands and sharing kisses
our instruments in our laps

Kids in school called the boys band fairies, but they weren’t all.

Super Day

Boy the way the Steelers played
and they didn’t mind what they got paid.
In the 70s we had it made,
those were the days.

Catholic priests could hide their sins
our fighting force was mostly men
baby, we could use a man like Mister Rogers again.

Didn’t need the Internet
compared to now you weren’t in debt
we didn’t know what AIDS was yet

Those
were
the
days.