et_ux

(exhibitionism)

on the island of
misfit toys the drummer boy (for years, and happily)
tap
tap
taps
across the lawn, humming smartly to his
clockwork beat

till once, through sun, or heat, or March-like roars

pour swoops and shimmys, syncopates and swirls
loose beats that sail into the air to tease the lofting birds to soar and dip

and in the end each note, held long or short, drops smoking to the ground
a blackened dot against the endless green

next spring, as flautists take to pizzicato trills and trumpeters play simple reels
each scorched and blighted spot will bloom anew

tulips, pansies, wormwood, rue
what do you other drummers do?