The Snare Drummer’s Plight

The highlight of the evening is Bolero.

The snare drummer begins the famous beat,

the marrow of the land of the torero.



The players, who have sprayed themselves with Deet,

ignore the insects swarming in the light

or lighting on the scores. The music’s bite

and lyric passion build each bar, with singing

strings, winds, and brass—while buzzing bugs seek meat.

One gently touches down and starts to eat 

blood from the snare drum player’s nose. The stinging

clings like a picador’s sharp lance of worry.



How can he stop to scratch? His part must never

cut out. Time’s poky arrow will not hurry.

Bolero! May it live—not last—forever.

______

(First published in Verse Wisconsin.)