by Clarence Wolfshohl

The steamrolling percussionist explains.
On his right ankle, the bells do
two beats. Duhduh. On his left,
the bells go dadada. With his right
hand he beats the drum once.
Duummm. And his left keys
the synthesizer didididi,
like a pencil in the eye.

He puts them all together
and is joined by the bassist
going thumpathumpa
and the electric cellist
who draws her bow long
and slow in amplified waves
that jostle between your cells
and set the dust to dance
on the heads of the marble busts
along the auditorium walls.

The sparse audience this Saturday
afternoon in the library keeps
head-bobbing, body-swaying time,
each in different time zones,
and one child in the middle
explodes all directions at once.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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