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Watermelon Festival, the Florida Panhandle
by Marsha Mathews
I was sitting on a log
after the seed-spitting contest,
munching boiled peanuts,
humming to the slap-haw of banjo
when a one-armed man
wearing checkerboard suspenders
and a safari hat
blew quivery rhythm into his harmonica.
His legs crossed, uncrossed,
crossed again, each step
a deliberation.
His eyes looked at me.
When the beat slowed,
he stopped, arm outstretched.
He wiggled his elbow,
slow at first, then faster.
Soon his whole body
was motion.
A crowd drew around him–
black people and rednecks
laughing together,
his stump waving us on.
First Published in Third Wednesday: A Quarterly Journal of Poetry, Prose, and Art
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