Poetry
Tattered Treasure
The old guitarist
Hunched over, barely alive.
Desolate and alone.
Except for his weathered guitar
that rests in the curve of
a well hallowed chest.
Long skeleton like fingers begin to
caress slender wires
as if petting air.
Soft melodies move outward toward
the street.
The old man leans in toward
his instrument
Rocking gently
as one does with a sleepy infant.
The rhythm of the worn guitar
is like the man’s own heartbeat
slowly paced but steady.
He is silent as the music quietly vanishes.
No need to speak. Some drop a coin into
the tattered hat as they pass by.
No applause.
With a slight nod of the head and a pat across the guitar,
the old guitarist raises his frame and gathers the day’s
offerings — he will not eat tonight.
A man of subtle refinement,
he thanks his guitar nevertheless.
Perhaps tomorrow, things will be better.
One possession. One lifelong friend.
The old man huddles in a dark corner
pressing the guitar to his chest.
