No matter how I coax
and stroke,
she will not reveal
truth tonight.
I’m sure it’s there.
I can hear it
hanging somewhere
between us,
but not with my ears. 

Bad guitar!
She knows
I’m no good,
knows I’m angry
and that putting the truth 
into my hands tonight
would serve war
more than music. 

I pull at her strings
trying to make her believe 
that if she gives me the truth
I can make one song serve both,

but bad guitar laughs at me
brokenly, cross-rippling splashes
of what I want across my face,
telling me
to snap out of it, saying

maybe someone can 
but tonight
you’re neither soldier enough
nor player enough
to do anything like that.