GUITAR

I have always loved the word guitar.

I have no memories of my father on the patio

At dusk, strumming a Spanish tune,

Or my mother draped in that fawn wicker chair

Polishing her flute;

I have no memories of your song, distant Sister

Heart, of those steel strings sliding

All night through the speaker of the car radio

Between Tucumcari and Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.

Though I’ve never believed those stories

Of gypsy cascades, stolen horses, castanets,

And stars, of Airstream trailers and good fortune,

Though I never met Charlie Christian, though

I’ve danced the floors of cold longshoremen’s halls,

Though I’ve waited with the overcoats at the rear

Of concerts for lute, mandolin, and two guitars—

More than the music I love scaling its woven

Stairways, more than the swirling chocolate of wood

I have always loved the word guitar.