# The Luthier's Poem **by Kenneth Weene** Life happens even to musicians harmonize motets birth death encores At the library the homeless woman reads obituaries wishes somebody might write hers A blue sedan abandoned to weather waits for a tow; crammed migrant occupants picking produce flow north Mayans from Guatemala search for pueblos, sing in languages no one recalls like Welsh Shamus Scot’s fiddle Gaelic wailer of ancient odes frame drum pipes war chants mysteries Druid magic blood trail written in squash, beans, corn Appalachian danced squares moonshine love affairs feuds Hatfields McCoys colliers’ hymns don’t get black lungs to heaven too proud to bend giddy-up fiddles banjos do-si-do burlap and calico worn from plowing Guitar frets worn as the women who toil in endless sun rounded bridges carry overloaded SUVs children dropped over an angry wall Mariachi songs for bunioned feet poverty never retreat rainbow serape maracas, trumpets, bravado or is the word machismo? music language life deep furrows souls The birthday cake woman wrapped in rags and Homberg spits and coughs death’s rattle lacks laces for castoff men’s shoes hums a dirge from mother’s funeral she cannot remember A man, drunk by noon, sings offers his bottle to a brother Sympathetic strings reverberate; next time comes around. She uses yesterday’s newspaper to sole her Goodwill wingtips Rest assured, she ain’t going nowhere just dancing to the music no one else can hear. On the border, the detention guard, salvaged from Germany says nada, mutters, wonders how many have crossed today his great-grandmother played the zither sang We Praise Thee, King of Kings, In darkness when we waited