My Father’s Guitars | Poem
Sunlight peered through the small window situated in the makeshift studio under the floorboards,
Guitars hung haphazardly on the focal wall in accordance with their size and shape,
My father’s collection of vintage and modern stringed instruments,
Of whom he considers the family’s tape,
He is a magician of the strings who has mastered both electric and acoustic,
A vagabond whose choices hinder upon his mood,
The sly fox who brandishes his tool of choice in dire times,
Especially in circumstances when he must soothe his young brood,
My mother sat astounded when he was able to perform her favorite tune,
All it took was one minor note to expel a bunch of tears,
He won her over after fighting for his shot,
Now my parents have been married for over twenty years,
At this moment I sit on the steps going down into the basement,
Mesmerized by the two of them sitting side by side,
Both were unaware that they placed each other in a trance,
Wondering how long I can quietly bide,
They were in the middle of a song that has influenced all our lives,
Their voices harmoniously synchronize even though both sing on a different octave,
I recognize the bridge of a familiar body of words that my parents used on their wedding day,
The first love song they ever heard together, which proved to be effective.
