he drinks, therefore
he is. or so
his mottled gray tee
would have us
believe. sprawled
between our parents'
vanilla lined, sandstorm
love seat and the ring-
stained table supporting
his laborer's feet, right hand
mildly contorted, perpendicular
to the strings
of a poorly tuned guitar
bedecked with garish roses
of lemon drop and baby-girl pink,
he picks a simple
arpeggio, 6-3-2-1, 6-1-2-3,
6-3-2-1, unconsciously dangling
an unlit cigarette
from his chicken-thin
lips. with a grimace
ridden to the brink
of casting the unfortunate
instrument into the face
of his do-it-yourself
tv instructor, he pauses,
stilling the dissonant
notes with his palm.
rolling his eyes with a tight
smile in my direction, he sighs,
sets the mass-produced
resonator aside and runs
his cramped picking,
concrete-pouring hand
through his short, sun-bleached
hair, and shrugs, "maybe
this isn't for me."
No comments:
Post a Comment