Member Poem

The parking lots round Buster’s little piece
of life see cars of every kind, whose horns
and antitheft devices batter drums
inside his ears. He grabs his sticks and runs
out of the door and rides his bike to work,
where his instruments are set up in the hall.

To get there isn’t too much of a haul.
The orchestra begins to tune. The piece
they’ll play is Mahler’s Ninth. The maestro works
on balance in the trombones and the horns,
then has the violins zip through a run,
while Buster waits by cymbals, bells, and drums.

Next day he wakes to thuds akin to drumming
above his bedroom, trudges down the hall,
then mounts the stairs. He’s had it with this run
of thoughtless neighbors. He’ll give these a piece
of his mind. He knocks — imagines they have horns.
Through walls he hears their kid still hard at work

kicking the hardwood floor. He wants to work
it out with them. “My pad is not a drum!”
The last thing that he needs is butting horns.
“Please get a rug!” He plods back down the hall
and knows he’ll never get a whit of peace
while living in this building. He has run

quite out of patience. Deep exhaustion runs
through all his bones. Tonight he has to work.
He takes a swig of whisky, gnaws a piece
of bread, climbs into bed, and dreams a drum
has morphed into a mansion’s banquet hall.
The ballroom is abuzz with human hornets.

One girl’s about to kiss him, when a horn
jolts him awake. It’s noon. A melody runs
through his mind. He’s playing at the hall
this evening (opening night). He goes to work,
engaging eyes and ears and hands with drums,
caught up in the crescendo of the piece.

While ghosts of drums, French horns, contra bassoon
run through him, he rides home, working the pedals
like a thief escaping with a haul of peace.

_______________________________________________

(Appeared in Pulsebeat.)