guitars

homeless guitars sit in artsy shop windows
troupes of travelling artists take a second look in, though
their pockets are empty, their sktchbooks are ready
and they sit down to beguile the day
capturing the guitars on the page

they shade in the frets, the soundboard, the design and
the polish, the wood's grain, exulting in lines that they make
and the colours of guitars, forms and shapes of guitars
curves created in wood bent apart
this is beauty, it's grace, this is art.

they lounge on the sidewalk, glancing in the shop windows
commenting in soft voices on the way the guitar flows
there is motion behind glass, a form shows behind glass
a boy steps in the way, reaches out
ignorant of the artists he flouts.

he settles to the ground, cradles the guitar gently
hands slowly caress its strings, stroke the finish, and grip
fingers fall into place, he is ready to play so
his fingers brush against strings and he strums
and the artists' faces are awestruck

the boy coaxes a voice from the guitar's lines and curves
and it comes to life under his skilled fingers
a warm resonant song, a soft strummed simple song
and the artists look on, amazed
because it lives in his hands, not on page.