In the Guitar Store

Weary from last night’s
gig, I wander in—
walls of iconic shapes:
a Strat’s angles
an SG’s pointed horns
a Les Paul’s tiger stripes
an arch-top’s womanly curves.
The scent of lacquer and wood,
and the riffs:
Wasted Years,
Shine,
Blackbird
and anything pentatonic,
ragged but real.
Boys with small hands,
fumbling, stretching.
What will they come to know
of the late nights,
audiences alternately
adoring and indifferent?
For now, it’s me, and their
patient parents,
spectators in an
unplanned ensemble.