There's a soft rumbling in the belly of your guitar
reminds me of just how small my hands are--
gentle ends of my finger tips
match the humming inside my lips--
But you'll condescend now with structured chords
you all with your betwitching stringed gourds
I fumble and shake and forget my place
Get lost in the black hole of memory's embrace--
reminds me of how small my hands were
and so the spotlight I would always defer
gentle ache in the belly of my guitar
my true self trapped inside the mason jar.
Tickle your toes. . .
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RICK: Hey Rick? DICK: Yea, Dick? RICK: See that sky roll on by? (points) DICK: ...Oh, my... RICK: Don't i-t'almost makes yer wanner.... -
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Tickling toes- there was something about that barefooted madness something about that wistful waist-high wishing and wooshing in the woods, ...
Poets United Contributor
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