Scenes Overheard in Music City

Sometime Saturday night sittin
on the couch whispering up from the heart
silently - or rather,
I was on the only one who could hear it,
But actually,
I think everyone else heard it, too
True.

Listen, see, they were telling stories,
stories that must be told
or rather -
stories that must be heard
but to be heard they must be told.

So they sat on the floor in the living room
of the house
by the urban farm
in the old neighborhood with cop cars
on every corner
and told the story of revolution.

The vet picked up his banjo and sang about home
but we heard a song about peace.

The door in the corner of the strip mall
squeaked but not meekly,
creaked though its cause
was beat.
The would-be recruit had already deserted,
but the uniforms behind the counter didn't know anything
about playing banjo in the Afghan mountains.

The conversation flew over Libya.
One of the uniforms left the counter.
It was midday.
The only place he could bow his head to Mecca
was the women's restroom.

The door squeaked, but not thoughtlessly,
Water-closeted prayers were the price of an education, after all.
Booming military business as usual continued
deaf to the bluegrass spiritual and the Adhan requiem.

A two figured gesture
a sidelong glance
a twitch of a lip
The uniform never asked
The veteran didn't tell
The squeaking door
in a corner of a strip mall
of the heartland closed
uncertainly.
And the banjo biked away.