The Fender

I need to sell my false guitar –
the one that lies in its case
against my bedroom wall.

Candy apple red
and beautiful as all
and any woman I’ve ever seen.

But there is no love,
the time has come,
for it to pay the toll.

My real guitar
sits idly by the couch,
with persistent patience.

Words do not write themselves,
nor do guitars play alone,
and neither pays the bills.

The time has come,
for roads been run,
to end this subtle bleating.

My hands do hold,
and words cajole,
a pure and simple meaning.

-JW, 11/04/2010