rites of passage

we wait in rows to see the great ones pass
the sun beats down but still we have to wait
we itch and cry impatience at the rate
the heat oppresses us till the loud brass
of trumpets in tones that can surpass
the loudest chatter tells us plain and straight
that we are in the presence of the great
and so we bow and cheer to show our class
the moment over we must now disperse
back to our private selves and our own hearts
wondering at the massive noise and fuss
but happy matters had not turned out worse
glad that we'd carried out our proper parts
and mindful that the show was not for us