by Carol Schoen
The brush against the snare
drum whispered
mysteries,
we swayed
against each other.
You looked away.
I missed a beat.
Inside the growl
of a swinging, half-muted
trumpet, blaring
and seductive.
We chatter,
I forgot to listen.
You left.
I missed a beat.
During the splatter
of a mid-summer storm
he left without me.
I glared,
grimaced, teeth clenched.
To hell with this.
just
find another
beat.
Carol Schoen wrote her first poems for Sarah White’s study group and has been chugging along happily ever since.