Dave Bonta's tiny poem reads like a night winding down, with music doing the walking. The speaker leaves with a fiddle, and that seems to get them "part-way home." The line break after "part-" makes you stumble a little, as if the journey itself is unfinished or the speaker is lingering. Then a bass arrives, and the speaker simply goes to bed.
The poem doesn't explain how fiddle and bass take part. Maybe they are heard, maybe played, maybe just remembered. That openness is part of its charm. The title, "Full figure," hints at something rounded out: a fiddle's high line, then a bass's low one, together making a complete musical shape, and perhaps a complete evening.
The mood is quiet, drowsy and content. Nothing dramatic happens. The speaker seems relaxed, even grateful, letting sound ease them from the outside world toward sleep. The short lines feel like slow, settling steps.