The guitar began
as a present to our daughter.
But as it ended
it was a gift to us.
.

The gift was a trip in time,
To a humble house,
With myriads of violin cases
On two by four shelves.

Ancient cases were displayed
Dusty black, paper edges,
criss-cross stacked
as summer bales of hay.

He brought out the $45,
A pretty little thing;
He played it like a bango,
Picking every string.

He was dressed in gray snagged
polyester pants, two inch suspenders
and a shirt of green and coral plaid,
With spectacles ramping down his nose.

He couldn’t stop at the $45
He ached to show us more--
To show us all his children
And play their many chords.

Early, an instrument maker,
Creating a bango at eleven.
For self-entertainment he said
During our Great Depression.

He pulled out guitar after guitar,
Tuned it, picked it, and smiled
At each wooden friend, then
confessed its every flaw and mar.

Then he lifted the has been,
a thirty year old Yamaha.

The guitar was not impressive,
Beaten with love ‘til scarred,
But still he smiled, caressing it,
Special of three hundred fifty babes.

He handed us several guitars handmade,
of which he was offered many thous,
He handed them to us, not to buy,
but for riches us to hear
So we could compare
the beaten babe.

As it was, pretty versus rich,
The pretty lost and rich was won
When she chose the beaten
Yamaha guitar.  

That’s not the end of this,
He brought out his bango!
My son sat it on his knees,
Can you imagine what happened?

For the next Robert write,
you will have to wait and see.

[This message has been edited by Sadelite (12-21-2003 08:09 PM).]