Music-school dropouts.
I was a two-timer; he was a rookie.
In his dorm room, all boy-smell
And mahogany drawers
I broke the sacred rule ingrained in me
From my conservatory days:
No noodling.
This was janky jamming
No stand, no metronome
Handwritten music
Laid on a twin-sized bed
I bumped my flute
Into his laughing face
No do-gooder could recreate
Our delinquent harmonies
Because dropouts, yes
We're experts in style
He had those techy guitar pedals
My wind-brain will never understand
And I played flat enough
To make a baton-beater frown
But the metal melodies soared
The beat grooved and grooved on
They can't call us classically trained
But there's no denying unbridled talent
And there is absolutely no denying
Mary Oliver's wisdom:
You do not have to be good.
Prompt: "Today, we challenge you to write a poem that involves people making music together, and that references – with a lyric or line – a song or poem that is important to you."
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