She wants me like the moon,
reliably present but distanced,
like something sacred
or beating nearby - an animal’s heart,
wild and unknowable
in its underground womb.
It would be a tall tale to assure her
I can ride everywhere in tandem,
because I’m a character in one of those hokey
movie capers where they synchronize watches,
only to careen into mayhem anyway.
As if I could ever be a metronome – let alone
an expensive ebony one,
sitting aloof and neglected on a parlor grand
like a legend,
always at hair trigger readiness
to echo through the empty house.
This is what I have learned:
The worst drummers are those
with abundant razzle dazzle
but who cannot keep the beat,
star struck by the romance of propulsion,
forgetting that rhythm wears a badge.
I have learned I am no machine,
though that is something measured in degrees.
I have learned that my steady beat
is out in the hot sun
sleeping in the road with my dog.
She will have to have me as waves,
sometimes gently pulling,
sometimes crashing.
Michael Philips
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/drum-lessons/
