Through the open window
the four o’ clock sun glistens
against the fretboard as my guitar
glances back at me from
the corner of the room –
I’m not much of a musician,
but I’ve had more success with music
and certainly made more money
than I ever will penning poems,
but these days the only ones
that’ll hear me strumming strings
are my neighbours, or flatmates
and I like it like that –
as a way to unwind from the day
and the madness outside on the
blood and piss stained streets
before I stare at the blinking cursor,
and at that I then move the slide over
the fretboard as the guitar sounds
like a distant howl in a moonlit forest,
a rhythmic lapping
of waves against the shore
and then a traffic accident at rush hour
as I hit the wrong note –
I consider adding some words to the song
thinking back to one beautiful mess,
before everything was said
and smile as I find some different to play,
knowing that some songs
like memories
are better off without the words.
Rusty Truck 