The Gnome of Nashville
It was a perfect, still, mild summer night
With an almost full moon just up
Behind the village gazebo
Where a ragtag bunch of men and women
In bib overalls, with more energy than teeth
Are sawing away on some down-home music.
“Lincoln Center — South” I whisper to myself.
The little old guy beside me on the sidewalk
Looks exactly like a garden gnome brought to life.
He is so cheery, tubby, and old, I say to him,
“Kind of hillbilly-trash Americana, right?”
He chuckles kindly and says,
“De gustibus non disputadem.”
I say, “What? What did you say?”
He chuckles more and says, “It translates roughly,
‘No point arguing over matters of taste.’
Today, in America, we’d say,
‘Different strokes for different folks,’
But I think the Latin is so much more beautiful,
Don’t you?”
Still chuckling, he wanders off down the sidewalk
Tapping his feet and combing his beard with his fingers.
I look after him and say to myself feebly,
“I don’t think I’ll ever talk to a stranger again.”
— Andrew Hubbard, Brown County
