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Poetry
by
M. B. Baldwin



  The Drummer

  I travel with the band
and the crowds follow,
But home is the room
where I live alone
with Vincent and Pablo
on my walls to listen
while I play my drums
to the rock and roll
blaring through the speakers.
And on TV
a videogame blinks unplayed,
until I get frustrated with practice
and work it out
by shooting down the enemy.

I remember a girl from school
who was fat and pimpley
and couldn't dance a step
that looked the way it was supposed to,
but she was always there
when the band played
on a Friday night in the gym.

She stood alone in a corner
and sang the words out loud.
No one could hear her
over the music and laughter.
No one chose to dance with her,
but I would look at her,
from where I sat, and know
she had passion deep inside
by the way she kept her eyes fixed
on my drumsticks when I played,
as if to follow me
to the secret place I go
when I lose myself in the beat.

Me,
I could have had any girl,
and I did,
'Cause everybody loves the drummer
(or was it my brown eyes and curly hair?),
But sitting here tonight, just me,
I think about her and wonder
where the years have taken her.



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