She Didn’t Bang the Drum
It haunts him if she admits I picked up sticks;
tricks him. Dreams of her because it pricks
his skin like needles until there’s a red rash,
as she ran to sulfur kitchen all mad dash,
pleased to pick them up like knucklebones,
seize tin pot pan to beat like monkeys do.
And he supposes if she’ll confess to it, like:
I’m there, gloss hair, mirroring supersoft sun,
like virus, like jacks grabbing the nearest way,
I bought it, listened, caught what he had to say,
copied what those monkeys done; I’m one.’
Doubtful it disturbs her thin and reedy crust,
his beats moved her, as if in them we trust,
a hopscotch Keith Moon, no talent just echo
blended draught board in pale green gecko,
bent back-cloaked in wooly grey better days.
A crooked knee mumbled litany, she'll pray
to snip-purse devils. Please never cut string,
and fiddle firm your plucked pizzicato violin,
play him a dance, play him your beady song,
see how he moves his hands. They’ll jig along,
crumbled chalk under feet of stamping throng,
thrice denying that she didn’t bang the drum.
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