Doc Watson’s mama didn’t raise no fool.
That’s what Greg tells me on the backporch
As he drums his fingers on the pearl white body
Of his five-string banjo.
The breeze draws a purring sound
From the strings, or maybe from a wind-chime,
But I don’t own a wind-chime, so it’s probably just
The breeze getting caught in the vinyl siding again,
Passing by the heirloom termite nests of my
New Brunswick row-house before squeezing
Out of the visible cracks to our left. When someone
Cries the high, lonesome sound in New Jersey,
Folks just keep driving, and the parade,
Barefoot, bobbing between the white oaks,
Keeps pickin’ and grinnin’,
Heading for higher ground.