My footfalls seem strange,
hollow, like I’m walking
across an old drum hidden
in the darkest corner of
a clandestine music shop.
I am on a path wending
through a wood, where I am
attempting to be quiet, but
the booming of my passage pricks
up the ears of the squirrels who
make tsk noises at me,
scolding me for my impolite traipse
through their living room.
They call me Boomer and remain
steadfastly unaware of the irony.

(drum: drumchat.com; squirrel: stobhilllungcancersupportgroup.weebly.com)