Music

(c) 12/22/2020

At the upright I suffered switched knuckles;
the metronome achieved the only possible perfection.
Emotions require a steady tempo.  Allegro had its place.
I’ve come to prefer Adagio. Could I ever be at ease?
At jam sessions Daddy snapped photos of me on the kit
as though this were evidence that he was loving.  
I looked so goddamned happy.
Maybe I was.
On top of the upright, orderly stacked sheet music
defied gravity and when his stacks took over the table
he over-rode family dinners.
Instruments littered our dining room.
Three trombones, the tenor and baritone saxophones;
no session went without water keys indiscrete spitting
that stained the carpet like permanently faded bruises.
There was an electric bass, and of course, my two guitars
electric and acoustic. I couldn’t fret or pluck.
My span always felt inadequate. A judgement
I could never quite put down.
By the time I’d reach high school boys
would let me know music took man hands.
Eventually drums crowded the table right out of the room.
One percussive or another was well within reach.
I favored the Guiro, mostly for the heft and the ease of it
though my patterns were erratic and out of sync
with the metronome.  
Dad bought in armloads of jazz and classical albums
to prove taste; He articulated the composer’s name
as though he and they were regular drinking buddies. 
“That’s De-BUSE-e”, he’d say.
I’d say “deb-u-see” just to hear him curse me.