Cold Guitar

She’s on your mind

as you struggle
into the club

with your gear,
coming in from cold

that will bust your guitar’s finish
wide open into something like

a road map if the case
is opened too soon.

There you sit with a beer
staring at the case,

thinking of songs for her
you haven’t written

that you promised yourself
you’d write, and now

would be the perfect time for it
if only it would warm up.

Then again, there’s tomorrow
to consider, and spring eventually,

and the right song takes time
and heat and more time; and 

the thought of her is receding now,
the previous urgency diminishing

even as the time comes
to pull the guitar gingerly out

and play your songs for strangers,
songs you wrote for her

in warmer days. Songs
you are selling, if you can,

to anyone who will listen.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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