Guitar Poem

What soothes him is the guitar,
that hollow piece of wood,
with its cold and steely strings,
singing songs borne from Andalusia
at the behest of his firm grip, but
gentle pluckings. Songs from
the streets of Seville, from the
moors of Malaga, and the cathedral
of Cordoba, the smell of oranges
seeping from the wooden neck of
his instrument, carved from the
very trunk of an arboreal inhabitant of Iberia.
Two, one, open
Two, one, open
Change strings
Two, one, open
Two, open, change strings, three
Do it again
He could do it all day
Throw in those high E notes
Faster!

Home from school, he walks through the door
And there she is. Her strings are so cold
Untouched since the dawn, but he
Warms them as best he can, making her
Gypsy Fire burn like the lamps in the Spanish sidestreets
The melody flows from her like a river,
Esperanza is her name and she sings so beautifully
Whether with nylon or steel
That she’s hollow becomes irrelevant
He fills her with love and she sings until dinner
Then it’s time for homework
Or maybe another song