She plays the drums, lost in it,
simpatico beats, joyous racket.
Working all the energy of love,
scent of her lover in a gift jacket.
Maybe write songs, like as a girl.
Maybe her lover plays guitar.
Something shared in creation,
something to hang upon a star.
Clear, no bad thoughts, fears.
Just the rhythm, just the noise.
Not worrying about grace,
or that perfect model poise.
Hum of flow, just this thing.
Just this girlhood past time.
No pleasing fanged men,
whose temper turn on a dime.
Thunder rolls out in the sea.
Salty air in this hotel suite.
She stops her drum playing,
thinks of a perfect day in Crete.
Her and her lover, just young,
almost normal, almost ordinary.
Photoshoot soon, model glamour.
All this light and magic to carry.