From here I can imagine you with that old Gibson you picked
up at Goodwill
What a deal. You thought about selling it on Craig’s List
but why not learn to play instead.
At night you strum the new chords you learned off the
internet, imitate Keb Mo
Or something like it. I like it, the thought of you as a
musician.
From here I can also imagine her crooked eye brows as she is
in bed, texting you,
“I have to work in the morning. I don’t play around all day.
Why can’t you respect me and be quiet?”
That’s the part where I try to shut off my imagination but
the slideshow keeps running.
I can see you speaking blues through those strings, your old
voice humming
Everything underneath that leather heart. Only the Goodwill
Gibson knows you, I’m guessing.
