Sean Cole
Old Typewriter
Work is over. Think I’ll go and shoot a drummer.
Today I bring some young musician’s summer
to a close. What a bummer, for him, can you imagine?
“Hey kid! Ba-dum ch.” He charts,
and dies. Thunder leaves his heart. Sticks part
and click the corner of Mass Ave and Boylston.
2 streets rolling on the Charles. Someone screams
“One more number!” No. No more number.Murder’s the same as getting a hummer for some,
’cept no come. Not me. Not in this for the counseling.
Shoot because I mean to be a beaut. My aim
is lumber shyly in its shed, resting
breeze. A hard humus burdens this gun,
needs out. Death rattles the detached cage
door that bones the car.
2 dimes fly into a dumb roll. Taps plays,evening slips into its bonus chamber.
The sun drops like a bead to the hammer
primed below the layer. And the street becomes a concert, every
person squats aside the flank of his own killed rhythm phenom.
You know it’s a long day when the world doubles,
when a shadow world stuffed with one fat coroner eclipses
the stars. Crumbs of wood float up and count each other
in the air, “a one, and another.”
