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It was 1968.

I was eighteen,

fresh out of high school.

The draft was still on.

Two doctors examined me.

One said I was a no-go.

I remember one boy from my hometown.

He was quiet,

played the saxophone in the high school marching band.

After graduation, he was drafted,

went to Vietnam and was killed.

A few years later,

during our annual Memorial Day parade,

my old high school marching band passed by me.

When I saw the saxophone player,

I couldn’t help thinking,

this kid had no idea whose place he took.

I hate those people who did everything to avoid the draft,

and now they’re the Hawks.

I still have guilt.

You know how I feel.

Some other eighteen-year old replaced me.

What happened to him?

In my dreams that night

and every night since,

I see a marching band.

And when I look for the Saxophone player,

he isn’t there.

Dennis Wayne Bressack

Woodstock, New York

October 20, 2002

Dennis Wayne Bressack
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-	: please don't let my son go to war :	-
t h e s a x o p h o n e p l a y e r It was 1968. I was eighteen, fresh out of high school. The draft was still on. Two doctors examined me. One said I was a no-go. I remember one boy from my hometown. He was quiet, played the saxophone in the high school marching band. After graduation, he was drafted, went to Vietnam and was killed. A few years later, during our annual Memorial Day parade, my old high school marching band passed by me. When I saw the saxophone player, I couldn’t help thinking, this kid had no idea whose place he took. I hate those people who did everything to avoid the draft, and now they’re the Hawks. I still have guilt. You know how I feel. Some other eighteen-year old replaced me. What happened to him? In my dreams that night and every night since, I see a marching band. And when I look for the Saxophone player, he isn’t there. Dennis Wayne Bressack Woodstock, New York October 20, 2002
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