A weekend village has sprung up
Gulf Streams, Dutchman, Fleetwoods, tents
a bass drives out a beat
while the dobro weaves a path through it
guitars fill in the edges
as the fiddle springs to life,
and the banjo dances in and out
vocals weeping in the distance
the professor, pharmacist, salesman, and lawyer
this weekend are banjo, guitar, bass, and mandolin
the development director of a small charity
is dancing Denise
teenagers appear at the edges of the compound
instruments nervously in hand
only their timidity standing in their way
where else can you wander into somebody’s home
quietly pull up an empty chair
and become part of their evening
whether as an appreciative observer or participant
and leave later, never having exchanged names