Quill Nine—a man in one act—
bang, bang, bangs away on his instrument,
reeking of freedom.
A slave to the sound.
produce less sweat at the anvil, hammering.
And their work engenders less chaos.
Produces fewer devotees.
Even their horses love Quill Nine better.
Stampede for him.
There’s no corral big enough for his roundup.
Night to day to night,
Quill taps and bangs and swats.
In the heat of it, he cuffs his shirt sleeves
tightly around his biceps
with lengths of rubber medical tubing.
back and forth on grimy, gritty concrete floors.
Back and forth on blood and devotion stained floors.
He churns—a member of the Endless Choir.
One of many whom can’t stop the rhythm.
K. Shawn Edgar | Night Swan | Double Dutch | Stackable