GUITAR SHOPS. FOUR CONTINENTS.

Why G-d is it that when a woman walks into a guitar shop,
humble or renowned, the man behind the counter sports
a smile that snakes around his face like the alleyways
leading up to red Alhambra as he hunts through his teeth
and sighs while he brings forward his cheapest instrument
pointing to a low chair by the door without a footstool or
a moment of peace while dust and noise stream in, blend
with the glory of a Bach Prelude travelling from Major to
relative minor to the Five of Five, and I shake my head
while I want to shake the unresponsive guitar, and I really
want to shake the young man with his black moustache
which blinds him to the fact that women can play too
and have better rhythm or ear than he does, and what about
G-d who could turn the driftwood guitar golden with a snap?

PUBLISHED IN WEST TRESTLE REVIEW, MAY 2024