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