The echo chambers
me, clambering for
the hamper, and it
is full of flirty laundry.
Gross, I should say.
Instead, I fall down,
turn my head toward
the sidewalk, and taste
the gum that has been
there since the last time
we almost nuclear warred.
Something about seagulls
or geese, and radar. Why
do I lay here, in the extra
hot modern sun, and take
my life outside of its original
demands, baking next to the
asphalt on the suburban heat
island, letting little rocks and
pieces of glass penetrate my
ear canal. It's because I never
learned to play the drums, never
became a percussive force of
stature, stayed under the tympanum,
guided only by a special gravity
that knocks me back to the ground.
Roman Ryan 