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my guitar leans in the corner
after too long forgetting
to tell me where my fingers go.
old schoolmate
your voice I hear in my head
telling me I was a natural
and that so long ago.
there it leans covered with dust and thumbprints
as if I'd never followed a C with a G.
I feel the softness in my fingertips
hearing you say - play that again, man,
I've never heard it that way -
playing for you my friend.
in here now a song
and I recognize a simple progression
knowing if I pick that guitar up
my fingers will forget.
this quick memory
playing and fingers sliding
wrist loose and hitting precisely
stretching strings and smiling
there in the groove
hands working
knowing all six strings
all the frets up and down
back and forth
somehow there and making good music
creating my own place
in the structure and space of a song.
now my guitar leans in the corner
and won't tell me
where my fingers go.
14 August 1995
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