When there it is, your guitar
siting next to you on a stand —
a guitar called Kojak (because
it’s a Telly, get it?) in the vernacular
but whose formal name is Telecaster —
which has two waiting single coil pickups
and simple as hell controls, is black and white
and sits there all of thirtysome odd years old —

when the guitar sits next to you asking
to be played, even in some simple way
with simple chords;

when the guitar
doesn’t understand how badly your hands
have decayed; every strum hurts at first
until you figure out some key reasons
to keep at it, to keep strumming
or fingerpicking;

to recall one or two old songs
from your deepest past yet you
don’t really know them well anymore,
they are rising and falling in the mist
you call your mind these days,
you have to struggle to recall them, to sweep them
forward to your hands, to shift Kojak
on your lap to get any purchase upon them;

when this happens, do you give up the struggle
for the songs, do you put the guitar back on its stand
and whisper, “another day, Kojak, another day,”

or do you stretch your hand back
to its deformed players’ shape
and go back to it, the song coming out
wrong again and again but still, you and Kojak
keep at it until your hand cramps, your brain
closes your eyes, and you sit there for a long time
after, asking the guitar: “who loves you, baby?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T