Tapping on Tables

Tapping on Tables

This is no toy for the apes.
This is the rrrrolling crackety smackety
CRASH.
With-a-one two three four,
never four to the floor,
make sure you shut the door
tight.
For gentle listeners no delight,
hearing banging late into the night.

Stamping is for beasts, no beauty no grace,
just noise, a red face,
dripping with laborious beads
as the metal bends and breaks, the sticks reduced to
sawdust flakes.

The notions of rhythm,
the rise and the fall,
with the crack and the boom,
the rolling thunder of the toms
and crashing of cymbals.
Symbols in themselves, of the noisy kind.

Callused hands playing old patterns,
sometimes new.
Soft and warm,
hard and sharp.
The ticking of the closed hats a measurement
of time,
perpetual.
Far from a science, but an art to be exact.

The dulling of the future gives way to the vivid moment.
Flicking, looping, tapping,
once the dance has begun.
Cracking and gasping and clicking
and battering and snapping and crying,
but always ringing.