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Tempered SonTo Royce Sykes's previous piece     Watching the Rain DanceTo Royce Sykes's next piece

Rhythm Of the Dryer Drums

Rhythm of the dryer drums, with funky beat,
beats out the funkiness of my sheets, I glance
around to see if anyone other than me might
have the urge to begin a song or tribal dance.

Dark brown eyes flare behind dreadlocks when
she realizes I've noticed her shuffling feet; I
nod towards the lad whose earrings clink as he
taps fingers along a folding table, and she grins.

Then another, perhaps a daughter, gets up in 
her face; can't hear what's said but recognize
the expression of adolescent embarrassment; the
woman turns away, the young man's out the door.

I wonder what we might've made by sharing our 
impulses:  thunder of the plains with Savannah rain 
lit by flashes of gothic lightning?  Maybe someday
such a storm will break this city's cloud cover.

If we've nothing else, there are moments like these,
and the hopes and the dreams they nourish; and
laundry room attendants mildly grateful when the
customers leave behind only minimal messes. 

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