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