Don Ho is NOT in the house

Don Ho is NOT in the house

You’re not here so I charged the dust buster

drank a beer, ate a burger and tuned the ukulele

to a bookmarked program on the computer.

I’m no percussionist but I can tap my feet in time to

sunbeam and raindrop

heartbeat and eyeblink and

sing a song of sixpence;

feel what’s around me,

whoop and sway like a hula dancer in my living room

because there’s no one there to make fun,

or shimmy like a belly dancer, whirl like a Dervish or even boogie to a zumba routine, the

crickets outside clickclacking like castanets

their accompaniment tireless, insatiable, mesmerizing and inviting.

I’m entranced, let go, get lost in the moment when nothing else matters and

there’s no critics, no one to please but myself

released from convention, the improv embraced:

“opus for ukulele dust buster foot pedal kazoo and recorded highland bagpipe.”