by Jane Macavay

If this were the desert,

a separate sea,

what then of that drum we left sitting on the bench that day in Tyman park?

Do you think it decayed?

Broke down,

skin first,

then the bells?

Did anyone try to save it?

Who cares?

Left over: a feather, slick and a little greasy,

rested on the edge of that sad instrument,

trembling in a hasty breeze.

Jane Macavay is an musician and writer born in Baton Rouge. She now lives in New Orleans with her sister and three parrot’s. She has been published in various small reviews and magazine’s and her forthcoming book of poetry “If it’s not for Breaking, Is it for Smashing?”  comes out in the Summer of 2013.