Locust Hill Jamboree

Snug under the fundraiser’s tent,

I watch as the rain smothers the nearby fire

That kept me warm before we had to flee

Those damp embers are not done fighting,

They try to haunt the air with clouds

Swirling in a galaxy around this ceremony

Yet I can still see the exhaust of landed gentry

huffing and puffing between the canvas

and the chilled rims of their wineglasses

And I can see their suspicions as well,

Their instant sense I am my father’s plus one

For whatever it is we are trying to save

I should have stopped at a thrift store

On the way, somewhere at the crossroads

Between the highway and the rural route

There is a uniform among the males

That is easy to imitate, a bright solid blazer

Is enough to tell them this stranger belongs

Raspberry or mint green would have been best,

Clear signs for any wobbling patriarch

We are tax bracket buddies worth a back pat

All I have now is denim, lightly soaked,

Remains of the rain that came stumbling over

The verdant peaks of the foothills

Unable to speak the language of real estate

In either its classical or vulgar varieties,

I can only hover with my penciled in name tag 

A bluegrass band mounts an ad hoc dais

There is no dancing, no hootenanny business,

I cough and drink the last of the beers