The Metronome

 3/21/2026 (C)

At the upright, I suffered switched knuckles;

the metronome kept perfect time.

Emotions require a steady tempo—

Allegro had its place.

I’ve come to prefer Adagio.

Could I ever be at ease?

 

At 2 a.m. jam sessions with his buddies,

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—when his stacks took over the table

they overrode family dinners.

 

Instruments littered our dining room.

Three trombones—

tenor and baritone saxophones.

No session went without water keys spitting, indiscreet,

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 judgment I could never put down.

 

By the time I reached high school

boys 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, for its heft and ease,

though my patterns were erratic and out of sync

with the metronome.  

 

Dad brought 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.