Forward Marching to the Derelict Drum

They fretted and complained,

each to each,

like buzzards watching bones

mummify and bleach beneath

the sun.

The ritual of progress,

East to West arching

over plains of numbered thoughts,

carries a song,

a call and return, a jazz band

of human bones. The improvised

percussion that sounds from just

outside the window pounds

the breath as the strings of the heart

are played.

They fretted and complained,

each to each,

and then forgot and moved on

to follow the sun,

to shadow the derelict song.

The End

4 comments about this poem Feed