Playing Guitar Alone

Fingers flat like tacky tics

Upon a neck

A rip of flagrant stumps

Of notes

On a fret.

A pause

A jest

A working knack

Tip a tack on the back of a nap.

I sing like a loot

I silly man making time stall

Rolling it into a ball

A cotton ball

With the insides of air

And all the while I think ahead

And boil a soup

Wondering if the broth will taste OK.


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