He sat in the front row, nearly in the center, focused intently on the music. He’d never seen me – or the person I was sharing the bill with – play before. I started the show with more than the usual invitation to sing along; I was quickly losing my voice and told the audience to grab any repeating line they could and join in, since I didn’t have much to contribute vocally. And from the first song, I immediately noticed that he did. At first I couldn’t tell if he was really singing – his mouth moved in the involuntary-seeming way you sometimes see with old men – but I could make out the syllables “Shackleton’s whiskey” and it was quickly clear that he was picking up on a line after the first time I’d sing it and figuring out when it would repeat. At the break I told the other artist about him – how engaged with the music he was. And then he came up to talk to me, telling me how much he’d enjoyed my set. He said he appreciated the way I wrote about working class people, with compassion and clarity, something he said few artists seem to do. He said that he was working class and he rarely felt represented in songs. He said he hoped that it was okay that he was singing along, and I told him that he had been my favorite audience member that evening, which he seemed genuinely touched by. And he said that my song Dandelion Wine, inspired by depression-era food, reminded him of some lines of a poem (which turns out to be called “Pantoum of the Great Depression”) by Donald Justice, that he wrote out for me: We managed. No need for the heroic. Across the fence, the neighbors were our chorus, And if we suffered we kept quiet about it. We gathered on porches; the moon rose; we were poor. And time went by, drawn by slow horses. People like us simply go on. Those lines fit perfectly with what I was trying to say in the song; he heard it clearly the first time he’d been introduced it. He told me that he went to a lot of the arts events on campus. He lived nearby and wanted to take advantage of the offerings. He said he made a point of going to the student music recitals, because there were usually so few people there to listen and they deserved an audience. The artist I was sharing the bill with was offering her CDs on a “pay what you want” basis and I had decided to do the same – but from the stage I urged anyone who didn’t already have a CD of mine to take one for free, because I felt bad that I really didn’t have a voice to share my songs that evening and I wanted them to hear me actually sing. I told this audience member that I really hoped he’d take a CD, and he said he would, but that he insisted on paying me for it because art should be supported. As the break was ending he asked me to tell him after the show which of my two CDs he should pick. After the show we talked a bit more, and he asked me if he could recite me a poem. (It was another one by Donald Justice, though I don’t know the name.) He recited it beautifully, fully embodying the words he was saying. It was as good a performance of any art as I’ve seen. I couldn’t decide which of my CDs he should take; the song he’d initially commented on was on the first CD, but the second one may be more representative of my current songwriting. So I told him I really wanted him to have both. At first he deferred but then agreed. He handed me some money, saying that he hoped it was enough, because it was all that he had. I put the money in my pocket and checked when I got home: he’d given me $8; the most valuable CDs I’ve sold.