grandfather’s guitar


A day before his birthday

I saw Grandpa strumming his old Gibson

His eyes fixed and steady,

Almost ignoring

The tarnished hum of strings

Feathered by his freckled hands

Smoked out, I rested my head on the banister

To commend the old man

So sure that his Libran mind

Went to his Vaudeville days

The casual beers with Pablo Virtuoso

And perhaps

To the violet serenades of puppy love –

Days when romance was king

And his instrument,

The intimate witness to the time.

He startled me

When In the Mood came pulsing out

In sifted scala. Not quite

In a dreamy mien anymore

He saw me smiled

The same smile when he told me

The story of Silas Marner,

A smile tossed with the bars

And ticklish tappings

I then thought

He might have skipped back

To his life down South

A fair and beaming youth

Born to battle against the waters of Zumaraga

And born to Skylark

The fruits of his now – lonely age,

But I buzzed to the boogie

With a happy leer on my face

Knowing that somehow,

Grandpa married his guitar.

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