bluing
chords of uh huh! Spit
halting sunrises
fat,
burping tenor runs
tapping nectar
from wind-
drunk stoplights
alto
sax squeezing juice
from adrenaline-laced
Now!
inside
kernels of cymbal
shudder: this poem.
Renoir Gaither is a tambourine. His cymbals, if they could write, would write themselves off this oppressive planet. Once and for all. The wood that holds his taunt skin is mahogany. Old stock. He’s sitting in an old box in the basement, any urban basement where old folks knock around stories of loves gone sour and young folks wish they could write in cursive. Beat him on your hip and he’ll make you dance.
Interested in having your work published in the 365 Collection? Complete your submission here.