I cannot explain why
I veer from Route 83
when the sign points left
to the boyhood home
of Lawrence Welk. A mile
or two of gravel and I end up
at a well-kept farm
on the banks of a large pond.

I cannot explain why
I get out of the car to take
photos of weathered signs,
a bandstand or a field
of wheat. Bird songs
and a soft whistle of wind
are the only music here.
It's just me in the audience.

I only know that something
tugs at me way out here,
back to Saturday nights
when we danced around
the living room linoleum
in pajamas and pin curls,
before we ever thought
we were too cool not to.