Make oatmeal cookies, not war by Bob Hicok

My heart is not a tuba, more of a piccolo

Make oatmeal cookies, not war

by Bob Hicok

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A parade with tanks versus a parade with tubas.
Both metal. Both go to war. Remember The Tuba Wars
of Upper Silesia? But only one guarantees oom pahs
and I'm a big fan of oom pahs. Is that the correct spelling
of oom pah? Here's the British: oome pahe. The French:
je suis a cigar. A parade with rocket launchers
versus a parade of ants wearing tiny black arm bands
for all the ants who've died under someone's shoe.
Time must be spent doing things that take time,
so I guess why not a parade of people singing
"I did It My Way" versus a parade of devices
meant to kill people who may or may not know
who Frank Sinatra was. This country doesn't need
a military parade, or another extra large soda,
or more quick oil change shops. A day at the beach
for America would be nice. Maybe see a movie
with Mexico or Canada. Perhaps a few adult
education courses, Advanced Hand-Holding
or Hand-Holding for Beginners for those new
to the dream of affection. My favorite parade thing:
big men in tiny cars wearing fezes, the men,
not the cars. But tiny cars wearing fezes
would be my favorite thing in all the world
as I understand it right now. Is this where I admit
I don't understand it at all, or do I do that
in another poem, maybe a poem with a shark in it
and me lost at sea in the ocean of the poem.
I know, a sea is not an ocean and a tank
isn't going to wear a fez any time soon.
I've got to go. It's getting early
and I'd like to be outside when the birds punch in.
When the parade of sunlight begins. My heart
is not a tuba, more of a piccolo, more of a home
my blood rushes to and runs away from
all day long. A parade of days and years
of trying to be better at knowing what I should want
to be better at. A parade of baby steps.
Should we live every day
as if we've just learned to ride a bike,
or should we ride bikes as if we're playing tag
with the wind? Yes. And should there be
other choices? No.