Sherry Poff

Isn't it always the drummer? closing his eyes

and beating out a rhythm, flinging his hair 

back and forth? The way he taps the cymbals,

absentmindedly, without half trying, I used to imagine 

he was thinking of me--like that boy who played 

in a Southern gospel band at the Labor Day celebration 

when I was fourteen. We never spoke, and I didn't know 

his name, but I sat right up front with my eyes fastened 

on him, admiring his effortless grace, feeling in my own chest 

the thump of the bass drum every time he flexed his leg. 

​

Such is the foolishness of youth. Decades later, 

I realized it was intensity, not sloth, that drove

the drummer. You at the microphone, eyes lidded, 

focused on the harmony, or perched on the platform, 

lost in the beat, pushing the melody. You drew music 

from the air, made it visible to my aging eyes. 

I studied your fresh face and vibrant form, learned 

to adore you too late, long after we had both found 

                                                     somebody to love.

Sherry Poff grew up in the hills of West Virginia. She now lives and writes in and around Chattanooga, Tennessee, where she interacts with a large group of students and family members. Sherry holds an MA in Writing from the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga and is a member of the Chattanooga Writers’ Guild.  Her stories and poems have appeared recently in Clayjar Review, Anthology of Appalachian Writers, Heart of Flesh, and Pine Mountain Sand and Gravel.