I always wanted to play the drums.
I always wanted to play a drum.
I beat on barstools with my father’s chopsticks.
I drummed by grinding and clicking my teeth.
My parents bought me my first drum kit.
My parents bought me a toy drum.
Two months in, my parents upgraded my drum set.
After two days, my drumsticks mysteriously disappeared.
In 1964, I joined my high school marching band.
In 1965, I joined my college ROTC drum and bugle corps.
I wanted to play snare. They made me play the glockenspiel.
I wanted to play snare. The new guy, I had to play bass drum.
The glockenspiel was heavy, awkward, a quarter note too sharp.
The bass was too big, I couldn’t see over it.
Marched into a stanchion, knocked a hole in it.
I switched to cymbals until the band leader issued me a tenor drum.
I finished the parade, pretending to beat my dead drum.
The first and only girl in the drum line, I practiced at home, played
for an all-girl band before we formed The Carpenters.
I never mastered the drum roll, except in my head.
My musical career ended when I graduated.
Drumming felt more natural than singing. I felt safe
behind the drums, nervous without them.
I continued to grind my teeth, clicking out military cadences.
Our performance coach insisted I take center stage, let someone
else drum. It helped me connect with audiences.
My teeth cost me a fortune in dental expenses.
from Letters to Karen Carpenter and Other Poems
Richard Allen Taylor, Poet 