Dave Bonta strings together a small folk-tale of luck, built around the banjo. A pregnant woman touches one for good fortune, a burglar runs from the sight of one, and a dog howls when a banjo turns yellow in the evening light. The coyotes answer, a locksmith stops to listen, and the scenes feel like pieces of one loose, invented tradition.
Then the poem narrows to a single moment: the baby kicks, and the woman pulls her hand away. The speaker imagines the child as a girl who will one day play banjo, so the luck seems to come true in the future. The tone is playful and affectionate, with a quiet wonder underneath. The speaker doesn't seem to be mocking superstition so much as enjoying how many odd things can feel lucky. The closing line, "all of them are round," is open to interpretation. I read it as hinting at the banjo's round body, the pregnant belly, and the sense of things coming full circle.