From a distance,
the amplified notes become garbled,
distorted by the intense heat and humidity
of the summer evening.
I can imagine frantic dancers
in colorful clothing
swirling happily like bees at a honey dance
as the banda music beats repetitively on and on,
tumbling and twirling on successive waves of sweat.
’till the tide rises an’ the tuba gurggles
an’ the drummer splashes helplessly,
laughing in some strange language unknown to me.
The festive colored lights flicker out one by one,
drowned in a wash of overheated dampness,
but the fiesta is not over,
the leader announces in excited staccato español.
The trumpeter calls for another round of tequila
before the next set begins,
while from afar, I sit and nod, alone in my chair,
bleary eyed, as the fan labors on,
awaiting the next dream.