stuttering staccato

staccato
is a dance

I hear it starting
on my roof

ta
ta-ta
ta-ta-ta-ta

ta
ta-ta
ta
ta-ta-ta

s-s-s …

s-s-s …

stuttering

until it starts

then beating stronger
varied pitch
it is
timpani

ta-ta ta-ta
ta-ta ta

with varied pitch
it is the roof
timpani

staccato
falling
one-by-ones

I watch them
from the clouds
down

as though they’ve aimed
themselves at me

to bounce and sound and fill the air

drum roll and roll
without crescendo

crescendo
rumbles somewhere
(in the sky)


© Frank Prem, 2017

October 2017 Poem #31: axeman: await winter

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