walls slick with mold
is the old drum set.
A broken cymbal hangs
at a festive angle,
and the punched-out bass drum
's encroached upon by dilapidated boxes,
their many pressing bodies
urgent with decay; brown, boring
but for the way they're full up
with photos and filmy memorabilia.
You used to sit and say "my throne"
and beat the skins so hard
we had to dance. We laughed.
The sodden stacks of cardboarded images
and failing snares
can't tell that story.
How I've missed you now, for so long.
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