My guitar rests on its case in the floor.
Its song is dust. I haven’t picked it up
in weeks or tested the weight
of its embrace against my chest.
I understand why people play the blues.
I get it about sullen country-western.
Not my response. Your absence
has left my fingers lax, hands feeling
no desire to cause a warming chord
or clumsy one. I’ve been waiting
in my room for your return,
which is like waiting for a favorite song
from twenty years ago
to appear on the radio. Everything
between is noise. I’ll have no part of it
until the deejay says your name.
