Good Friday/Grace Notes

Woke too early

must have been 4 AM

with music ringing in

my head, driving me to

the far end of the house,

where the low twang of

an unplugged Tele lets me

exorcise the itch in my fingers,

the longing on my ears, 

the urge of hands to coax 

and squeeze pure tones from

the inertia of wood and

and nickel-plated steel, releasing tension 

as sound, barely audible

in the quiet house. Some notes 

only felt, a sympathetic buzz back

through my wrists into my body,

others plink plaintively. A few

ghost notes blooming into grace,

meeting at the intersection 

plank and wire, turning the import

Squier into a chorus of honky-tonk

churchbells fading slowly like a

secondline turning the corner

onto Canal, one blue note

quavering.