We play drums, the lot of us. Some
play skin and beat their bones beneath.
Hips hug
jeans. Seams
stretched to maximum effect, and it's a song.
And some play teeth and leash the wind
whilst it whistles
in and out, and tongue tries
words
against the uvula and palate, siphoning off
the brain's bum's rush of noise, endeavoring
to com-mu-ni-cate, and some
play Hate-- make every moment
into a clash- a sword-
a bombast,
drumming on the other fellow's
rights
or wife or talents.
Some look to stars
and play their bongos
on the circuts of Polaris priding up the sky, then drum
the ground
again, to make sure they send by sound,
the wonder of it all. And the preachers play the kettle
drum
of creation,
banging out Almighty God. Prod the godless into sometimes
giving thanks or looking over their shoulders for the deity- it's true,
and you
play me, and I
play you.
