"My Talking Drum"
When I first ventured out,
out from my Covid Cave,
I brought my talking drum.
Alas, it uttered no sound,
nor was it made of earth's
glorious hardwood and supple strings.
As with the smaller brethren of talking drums,
its size resembles a loaf of bread,
comfortably tucked under my right arm.
Was I a member of musical royalty,
like the Guinean Griots
who would play at the behest of the King?
Hardly . . . Just some unfinished business
from the Y chromosome side of my family.
For my drum did not call his subjects to arms,
to martyrdom,
or a tribal ritual.
Nor entertain them with
poetry,
proverbs,
or sweeps of oral history.
Let alone imitate the polyrhythms
of zebras and gazelles escaping their predators!
But it was in my mind,
my protection,
and I carried it everywhere at first.
It mirrored my every fear,
every suspicion,
and my every moment of relief
and glimmer of grace.
This canister of cloth and alcohol —
wisdom from a century old pandemic —
literally breathed with me
as I desperately tried to breathe into . . .
Gratitude.
June 2020
