Untitled

Untitled

Face a fretboard he knelt, fingers webs
spun of pain.
A songbird on a tuning peg would bow
when the old guitarist was done

-- then fly away.
The piazza rang with children
scrabbling for the coins left behind.

For at a certain moment each day
the old guitarist would simply vanish.
No one having heard knowing why
-- he played at all.

-- © Ciprianowords, Inc. 2010 --