Click here to listen to Jeffrey Bean read this poem.
It comes from gravel lots where the state fair pushes fried dough and bagged fish out the mouths of red-lit tents. It’s pumped out of dunking booths across the blocks and into windows, up the stairs
It’s where the voices in rooms above him drift when
they cheer, or sing, when they ooh and ahh
or rise in anger, say where have you been,
when they call out for help or to mourn—even then.
It’s La Cucaracha.
It’s When the Saints Go Marching In.