little drummer man

there used to be
a rhythm to his
life. a steady tap on
the
high
hat;
a kept beat on the snare.
and the kick:
deep, careful,
sometimes slick
but
always on.
he was a lead-type
drummer,
who took the music
where
he wanted it to go. then, he stopped
playing.
he kept the
rhythm.
it was,
after all
a gift.
what he’d lost
was
the drive.
he was still making
music –
or was it MUZAK, now? every now and then
he’d sit behind his
old
kit.
it felt good, but different.
he’d fiddle
here
and
riff a bit, there.
he tired so much
more quickly. his energy was different,
somehow.
he could keep
the beat,
but he didn’t send
it,
move it,
anymore.
he once broke
drumsticks as
thought they
were
toothpicks.
snap.
crack.
shatter.
splinter.
now, they lasted.
he wondered if that
was
bad.
then decided
that
it
wasn’t,
maybe.