You're rough with your guitar,
pouring notes into air
like nails from a bucket.
You know what you'll say,
though words stay buried
in ringing feedback.
Your blurring pick destroys
pretense. You flirt
and slide to crescendo,
jamming down fingers
rough as hooves, reflecting
your patient years.
Smooth wood shines
from the neck caressed.
Around you: silence.
What's more important,
you could ask anyone,
than the mossy tune you hum
each day, the one you hammer
and pull off each day,
finding yourself balanced
between these rapt listeners
and yourself, wrapped
tight in blues?
