Year of Writing 28

1/28/12

To the Banjo Player at the Farmers Market in El Cerrito, California

I couldn't see your face
or the banjo -
the shade curtain protecting the tomatoes
dropped almost to the ground
almost,
but I saw your left foot
tapping 4/4 blues.
I stopped,
forgot about the leeks,
the swiss chard.
There was no crowd
no pushy Vietnamese woman
no squalling child.
Just a foot tapping,
a shoe, worn to the point of discomfort
and the homesick twang
of an instrument
too far from its occasion
a man too far from his hearth.