Same Drum

Same drum, different hands.
I can feel you where I stand.

A djembe starts across the square,
A low drum answers from a chair.
A low drum answers from a chair.
She taps a phrase I don't yet know;
I wait and let the answer grow.
A taiko rolls, a bodhrán skips,
I try to catch it with my fingertips.
Different wood and different ways—
I don't have to change the way she plays.

Leave a little room for me.
I'll leave a little room for your beat.

Same drum, different hands.
I can feel you where I stand.
Your beat answers, mine comes through.
Same drum—there's room for you.

A boy comes late with borrowed sticks,
Sits on a crate beside the mix.
He misses once and drops his eyes;
The woman slows her hands in time.
He tries again. She nods him in.
A little space, a little grin.
Now he leaves a gap for her—
The part I wasn't listening for.

Leave a little room for me.
I'll leave a little room for your beat.

Same drum, different hands.
I can feel you where I stand.
Your beat answers, mine comes through.
Same drum—there's room for you.

I came to make the loudest sound.
She laid her open palm flat down.
For once, I let a silence stay.
I heard the part I'd played away.
I heard the part I'd played away.

Same drum, different hands.
I can feel you where I stand.
I leave space and you come through.
Same drum—I can hear you.

Your turn.