this morning, the day after I broke my nose,
and a pigeon landed in the street before the house
and walked toward the gutter to drink some water.
I watched it and thought about how its head bobs
at the same rate its feet move.
The faster it walks, the faster its head bobs,
like a mechanical toy, a whirligig or whatever.
I thought then of drumming, of Meg White
in particular, how the knock on her was she
was a bad musician. And you can hear what they who say it
mean: Her high hat rhythm is tied to her foot’s.
The high hat and kick drum match, they are not
independent of each other, in the way good drummers
are capable of making them be. That’s how I drum, too.
We’re no Buddy Rich, no Neal Peart, but I couldn’t make
a Meg White. I couldn’t make a pigeon.
I want to be kinder in what I say about people and things.