band practice

my english notebook has become
trampled on the floor,
and caroline's weimeraner chews languidly
on an unsuspecting spatula.
our bassist is a surprisingly good
Cher impersonator
and the guitarist is the rocker
and i'm the one who spurts continual sunshine
and can hit the high F on a good day.
it's 1 AM and i feel perfectly gelatinous.
rather like a plaster mold is propped
against this cabinet rather than i,
and a tall man with bulging knuckles
is filling it with strawberry jell-o.
it could be mr.thatcher,
but he is in the living room watching
the nanny diaries.
laura is curled up on the Gibson guitar case,
as if she can sleep in between mandolins
and electric guitars and singing as loud
as i possibly can.
the back of my head gently knocks
against the cabinet,
redundantly thudding.
i wonder if the neighbors are awake
because of the incessant drumming.
the bassist groans in mock frustration
and i lean against the speaker,
and remember that i should be a lawyer
or a doctor
and change the world like i'm s'posed to,
and do as i'm told
like i'm told to do.
but right now, the microphone pole
is prickling and scratching my vertebrae
and i remember that i was made for this,
no matter what anyone says,
and whether i like it or not
i've known that all along.