I find a world of stories in this man’s gritty thumbnail. In the creases of his sun-ruddied face. In the proud rhythm he keeps.
Perhaps you don’t care about these stories. I don’t understand you. You have missed something important.
I imagine that the sounds from his drum are still echoing through narrow streets, off cobblestones older than Isaac Newton’s Principia, across oceans that have heard everything, into my ears.
The old drummer rarely speaks. That’s why I listen.