I hear the sounds of drums rise from below,
From the depths of the cellar of the school, the music school,
The school where I, back then a boy of ten—
An awkward scrawny boy of ten—first made
Acquaintance with that ancient instrument
That makes the heart to race, the head to nod
Along, the feet to tap, the hands to clap,
The fingers snap: the drum, and all his friends:
Marimba, xylophone and vibraphone,
My friends. To hear them now is to descend
Again those steep steep steps, transported back
Into that heart-race head-nod feet-tap hand-
Clap finger-snap world, where the pianists
On the second-floor complain about the noise
As if they got here first. The drums were here
Before us all, the basement bass line still,
Foundation for this house, the music school.

(Spring 2016)