Sneakers scrape gravel on a dusk-darkened road,
then enter a clearing, step into a home
lit by a large hanging lantern,
and parranderos amass as instruments appear:
four-stringed cuatros, six-stringed guitars,
empty Carib beer bottles with spoons to keep a beat,
shak-shaks to shake a rhythmic crackle-and-glide,
a box bass—made from box, string, someone’s mother’s broom handle—
and of course hands for clapping, feet for stomping,
voices for serenading in a Spanish almost no one speaks anymore.
The first song—an Aguinaldo—begins;
the wooden floor bounces; the lantern sways.
This house is just the start;
the parang side will walk from one to another
throughout the night. Will they take a parang,
do you think? This is the question
asked of some; of others it’s sure
they’ll welcome the band, no matter the hour,
no matter that they’re bounced out of bed
in the middle of the night.
The band takes care to sneak
onto the gallery—the porch—and then . . .
the strains of “Sereno, Sereno” begin. “Sereno será”? No!
There will be no parang side serenity tonight!
House to house, neighbor to neighbor, friend to friend, family to family,
the parranderos progress—from Serenal, to Anunciación, and on and on,
wetting sung-out throats with rum-and-Cokes,
and coffee as la madrugada commences with peachy-gray skies.
The band breaks fast with saltfish and bake—and satisfaction
of a night well spent. It is time: “Vamos Vamos Vamos” . . . until another dusk.