He sits in the half light,
narrowed by the space
between night and day.
Between the solid arms
of his favorite chair,
he leans and draws
with shadows of hands.
Strums melody softly
from rosewood and steel-
taut strings. He plays,
filling lyrics, pouring
colloquialisms from fingers.
From his throat, to leaves
and riffs. He leads as I follow,
tangled in deft fingers
through strings, tracing
tense chords, drawn
between strong shoulders.
Words drip and twang
from a slow drawl
and I drink colloquial
southern songs with absolute
vanity.
~haze
For JLC
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