The Drum Man

I see the old man, 

in the evening
of his life.
Every afternoon
as he gets a drum
at a time ready
in one corner
of his shop.

If he ever plays
it I’m not sure
He is drowned in
the world of drums
But he does not play the drums.

All I see him
in his withered lotus pose
As if on a painfully slow public vehicle
Any stormy or sunny day one leg stretch,
Another around a half-finished drum
His left hand held it
His right with a hammer or a pliers
Beating, checking, trying, testing

Your rhythmless sound is so disturbing
In your unhurried way lies a long story.