A New Yorker in Iowa

A gray, weathered, wooden rowboat lies beached
on sand and grass in some Midwest backyard.
A farmer sits inside the boat, both eyes
shut tight, waving a clarinet.  His child,
this girl, she hangs her head, her corn-silk hair
falling across her face.  Black notes buzz by,
like bees or flies, quietly fading in phrases.
His wife, her chin in hand, their son on her lap,
her eyes too still, pins me against the blue skies.
I don’t know them.  I hope I know the song.

Copyright 2004 by Sam Piperato.