Sandra Beasley reads her poem 'Ukulele'
The vessel is simple - a rowboat among yachts.
No one hides a Tommy gun in its case.
No bluesman runs over his uke in a whiskey rage.
The last of the Hawaiian queens translated the name gift that came here
while the Portuguese historians translate jumping flea the way a player's fingers pick and fly.
If you have a cigar box, it'll do.
If you have fishing line, it'll sing.
If there is to be one instrument of love, not love vanished or imagined, but love, it's this one.
Fit a melody in the crook of your arm and strum.
