We took turns, one inventing a scat pattern,
The other improvising melody and lyrics
Over it and then rejoining it, time to time,
Before concluding it. Rhythmic silliness,
The synchronized nonsense vocalizations
Of parent and child, about as unalloyed
As joy gets. Grandparents bore witness.
The house walls sheltered and absorbed us.
A mournful freight train reminded us there was
An active, rhythmic night outside of this,
This spontaneous life that’s best and happiest,
Because happiness must be temporary
And therefore any rhythm lacking innovation
Is prisonous and dangerous. Adjust. Adjust.
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