His fingers, clenching tightly to his sticks,
Are endless geometric planes of skin
And wood—with rhythms pounding like blood through his grip
Another bead of sweat falls from his chin.
His sticks are poised above the tight-rimmed drum—
A rattlesnake, forked tongue prepared to sting—
It cracks! then rolls with a purr, a gentle hum,
A waspy drone, an incoherent thing.
His eyes are focused on the sheet ahead,
Where blots of thoughtless shapes bleed into white,
Transforming ink to bliss inside his head—
A calculating glance brings song to life.
His fingers, sticks, and eyes are all he’ll get
To make the music something they’ll never forget.