I wrote this poem after my husband, Phil Passen, told me about this experience, which happened to him while he was playing music at the Green City Market in Chicago.
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Food for Thought
Standing under a sheltering chinkapin
the musician gigs at the organic market
each weekend, and though the venue
is dry and dusty, his music nourishes all,
particularly mothers, nannies, and children
who stomp and spin to the beat of his old-time
dance tunes: “Chicken Reel,” “Blackberry Blossom,”
and “Shove That Pig’s Foot a Little Further
into the Fire.”
Caregivers dole out dollars to the children,
who scamper up to the musician’s basket
and drop in the bills, watching them flutter
and settle. The performer goes home hot,
tired, and happy, knowing organic consumers
enjoy his music.
The musician thinks maybe more market goers,
those far from the chinkapin oak, might enjoy
his music, so one day in addition
to his thirty-pound dulcimer he hauls
his thirty-pound Bose Tower speaker system
to work. Erecting the tower he plugs
it in and plays, and it is true that he draws
a wider market audience, from
as far away as the quiche corner,
the fennel farm, and the Japanese
sweet potato grower.
More mothers, more nannies, more children:
more stomping and spinning to the beat.
But now, when caregivers slip the children
dollar bills, the children run up to the imposing
Bose monolith and deposit their offerings
before it. Even when the amused adults
approach the tower, pick up the false-idol dollars,
and drop them into the musician’s basket,
the children do not understand —
they rush to the basket, remove the dollars,
and once again offer them to the tall
black pillar from which emerges
the intoxicating beat.
At the end of the day the musician
packs up, collects his money (and the monolith’s)
and returns home hot, tired, and full of
processed knowledge —that given a choice
between the actual and the enhanced,
humans sprout a primal urge to abandon
the genuine and worship the magnified.
You can read other poems by Barbara Gregorich in Crossing the Skyway: Poems.