When a man dresses a certain way,
you don’t question his intentions.
You ask him if he has a home.

Too nervous to eat. Free food. Can’t see his feet.
Blown out pants must cover shoes. Trust.
Or you can ask if he has a pair of those as well.
The words are out. Do you have a house?
“I have a tent.” But what intent.
He wants to know if we want
to join his band.

Busted pink yellow ukulele strapped across his back.
Silver Bach Stradivarius trumpet strapped tight to mine.
Putting sound in the air for church-version worship.
At my father’s house. They always ask
and sometimes I even say yes. They let a nameless
young good looking yet odorous young man sit in the back
and watch along. Monotonous non-songs in predictable inflection.
Twenty-seven people who don’t read music all that well
or sing all that well or ever even believed
there was water once at the bottom
of all these wells.

Free heat and an uncomfortable wooden seat
for just under an hour. They even let him shower.
Too anxious to eat there with all of us, so some
equally abandoned person took him out to lunch.

He did not ask my name.
Or if I had a home, or who I am.
Here is a young man who understands.
Who did not know me apart from Adam,
and asked if I wanted
to join his band.