Lucy, Guitars.
I think about the day
we spent looking for
Cooper's Hummingbird
and the memory is as polished
and shiny and beautiful
as that guitar itself.
About how she looked
when I told her
that I had sold my first
good guitar that day,
the day we met, and how
we drank the money.
Then barely a month later,
drunk again and cocaine now
as well, off that brand new
dark brown back.
But mostly, I think of how she came
through the fuzz and rain
like a ghost of thunder,
played Segovia and Greensleeves,
and how she slept.
