Blue Jay Way

A Telecaster on the stand
next to me:
two single-coil
pickups, one three –
way switch, a volume
and a tone knob:
that’s it. A slab
of wood mass-configured
to amplify sound
and make sonic magic

and I can’t think
of anything
to do with it.

Saturday morning: old songs
on the radio — Beatles,
to be specific. The DJ
plays a rare German pressing
of “Magical Mystery Tour.”

Strangely don’t feel
the pumping urgency
to seize the guitar and struggle
on, and on, until
I tire of the work involved
and put it back —

instead,
I sit. As if
the black and white
of the Telecaster
itself makes the fatigue.
As if I don’t dare
pick it up and try.

This house is so
quiet except for
the Beatles and my heart
so loud I can barely hear
anything else,

anything worthy
of repeating,
anything worthy
of writing down.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`
T