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On Tour With The Percussives

Every nook held its gong, its cowbell
tabla, tamboura, tom-tom, conga, guiro
and that was all we ever knew
except for how the landscape scrolled
past the tinted windows, lights
in little houses in tiny towns
well before dawn on the fringe
of the city, no one up but us,
not even the paperboys. We’d
hear the rev-down, feel the bus
decelerate, suffer the first tug
of gravity, re-enter atmosphere, peer
out at the still-dark garage,
the unlit pumps waiting, sway
slightly when the brakes squeaked,
unaccustomed as we were
to stationary objects.

This was always the golden moment:
stepping off the bus onto pea-stone,
sunrise still an hour beyond horizon,
all the air in every direction pregnant,
everything only about to happen;
we’d share a quiet smoke and
listen to our heartbeats, rehearsing.

Comments
2 Comment count
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I can feel this one

Love the feel of this short. Must have been surreal to be part of it.

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The Percussives

Ron,

The creative wordplay and rhythm of this poem perfectly capture the essence of the moment. I read it to my husband, who plays drums professionally in a show here in Branson. He said it paints an accurate, beautiful picture of what it was like to be on tour when being on tour was fun.

By the way congrats on this publication. ORR rejected my poetry, although they sent a nice personal rejection.

Jules