Guitar

 

Guitar

 

So, he said he wanted a guitar

that played A Flat Major - well they all do,

don’t they? Step, step, half step, step,

will make a musician of him yet,

firmly press that fourth fret.

 

He has not yet got calloused skin

and it’s enough to see his toothy grin,

if he wants to learn it, learn it young,

this much, I know.

 

But, I’ve already bought him two –

electric and acoustic, he sold the last

for a quick buck, down past,

and the other’s depressed, broken string,

sat in the corner fading.

 

I plug and pick up my bass,

trace the laugh lines on his face

with ancient, thickened prints –

you frown, you think

back to when you were him.

 

I could teach him the riffs,

how fingers shift,

cross strings, up necks, plucking,

but his drifting mind’s on other things

and he’s already much the master.

 

So, we scour Truro Carboot sale

and cannot fail

to see consorts of lost guitars

in various states of disrepair,

marking all the scuffs of frustration there

upon the casing and the body.

 

And for North of not much change

from fifty notes, he chooses that one

he claims has many songs

that sit unplayed within.

 

He’ll take it home, corner it,

and it will sit forming a dusty shell,

until he feels the pull,

and somewhere something clicks -

and I know that we’ll duet.