My all-consuming problems
converge in this ancient guitar
that sounds barely fine today
Not as fine as it did a year ago

It needs some work just to be solid again
but even now it’s too expensive to repair
The cost will double over time
so it remains here in the spare closet

as a memory of what it used to offer
A reminder that pain can sound like
the strangled tone and sharp chirp
of treble strings 

when they try too hard to respond
to an urgent upstroke 
A request to make it sound like it used to
only makes it more obvious that it can’t

This fragile guitar is past its prime
waiting to explode from the pressure
of being tuned to an accepted idea
of what is right and good and worthy

I restrung it yesterday and played old songs
and thought of new ones I might try
With a softer touch I drew something forth
It briefly felt like music could still live here