Hanging the Instrument

I woke up sad. Felt
useless, worn out —
then I tuned my guitar-lele
to an analogue of DADGAD,
worn-out strings and all
until it sounded somewhere
in the neighborhood of right

and then I hung it on the wall —
two taps of the hammer, no more
than that — hung it right where
I could grab it if there ever came
a hurry to heal things, a need for speed
in fixing the earth to prevent
catastrophe, even if all that would be better
would be me

and my choice to not end
there would be negated or at least
put off. It’s there now
before breakfast and a shower,
after the dishes are done.

Before the needful, after
the needful. Right then
it was the needful; I am glad
to have it done so the music
awaits me from the white wall,
the dark wood, the still-polished strings.

I don’t know what comes next. If anyone
knows whisper it in my ear;
let me stretch my crippled fingers
to the tune.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T