Arthur was a drummer, an agent too

but his beat was not his claim to fame

enthusiasm was the name of his game.

 

Uneasy, hasty, jocular

his drumming was like a wrecking ball.

We met while slaving

over a table top stripper

dancing on broken glass,

a rare communion of unlike minds.

 

Arthur got people together

moved them around, chivvying

a forever project

then took his cut.

 

Finally the drums were left in his garage

to the spiders and deaf dreams

where the car never rested.

 

Years went by, we lost touch

then the news came.

He lost it while crossing a ford

got swept away

 

everyone was shocked.

Such contacts as he had were

gathered up, garnered by eager commerce,

a diary left fully stocked.