Strumming an Invisible Guitar
The final songs on Jagger’s greatest hits
blares though your parents’ split-level in Queens.
The base is off but your motions vibrate the
hardwood floors beneath our feet.
Strumming an invisible guitar that
no one hears, not even you, while you sit
beneath your favorite shelf hung next to
a “Go Mets!” banner and the street sign
You stole one New Year’s eve.
Mick Jagger’s lyrics filter though the tiny
room, a low gasp escapes from your stubbled
face, tells me that you long for a second chance–
to be the boy dressed in his Sunday’s best
On his way to Communion.
It’s cloudy now in your neighborhood—
It’s cloudy for you too, not yet sure where that boy went.
The song ends and the invisible guitar is left with your
past, clinging to the paneled walls you covered long ago
with paper airplanes and Budweiser girls.