Meditation #25

The scholar says,
"Chop wood, carry water,"
because he didn’t have indoor plumbing
and central heat.  Work
has become remote: the job
leads to a note that cash, slippery
cash, is present for a moment,
and thus the heat and water
will follow. 

So, I reach, as always,
for a guitar.  Chop chords,
carry melody.  Direct and
immediate. Builds
calluses like nothing else:
small, precise pads of evidence
that I know how to use my hands.

I hold the old instrument
with its wear patterns that speak
of other hands, other toilers
who stole time to do this.  I’ll
pass it on someday,
sure of my own minute legacy
that will remain, even if the songs
have vanished, never to be found.