Slapstick
When the music stopped for Dad
And Shorty McCormick’s Jazz Band
Played their last gig, his drum set
Was retired to our dank basement
His traps resided in an extra large
Black cardboard suitcase and soon
My brothers and I commenced
Drumming the life out of its quiet remains
Before long the solid beat of the remaining
Percussion instruments were rendered silent
And were finally sent out with the trash
I hung on to the last reminder of my father’s
Well warn drum set that helped him keep time
During his many solo jazz improvisations
Now with love I hold on to his tattered slapstick
The only rhythmic survivor, still ready to keep the beat
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