by Sharon Hammad
Don’t tell me I should tinkle on the piano’s ivory keys
And I don’t want to learn to make the tartan bagpipes wheeze.
I do not crave to pluck the harp with fingertips and thumbs,
But how I hope and dream that one day I can play the drums!
If only I could find the words to sway my mum and dad
From their idea that getting drums is bound to turn out bad.
They tell me they would cost too much. We wouldn’t have the space
Unless we relocated to a chockablock-less place.
My parents think I’d wake them up when they would rather snooze.
They’re confident the neighbours would completely blow their fuse.
No matter what I say to them, they will not change their tune:
It looks like I’m not getting drums at any moment soon.
The neighbours wouldn’t have to know; they wouldn’t hear a peep
And if we looked up Gumtree I bet we could get some cheap.
Concerning space, of course my room might end up in a squeeze
But I can sleep out in the hall. Oh, let me have them please.
Perhaps I need to close my eyes and strongly concentrate
So one day mum and dad decide to re-evaluate.
I try and try this strategy although it doesn’t work
For when I open up my eyes, my parents only smirk.
They ask me if I’m feeling sick ─ my face is rather pink─
And as I slowly turn away, I think I see them wink.
The night before my birthday I release a mournful sigh.
It might be better if I kiss the drums idea goodbye.
My birthday dawns and light seeps through the curtains in my room
While over in the corner something strange lurks in the gloom.
And as I stare, and stare some more, the ghostly shape becomes…
My own electric-foldaway-with-headphones set of drums!