Brock Guthrie

Guitars

Here in Alabama, let’s say I wanted to sell you a Glock.

A new law for the new year says you can take one

unregistered, like an iPhone or Almond Joy, into church

or Chuck E. Cheese without a permit,

meaning you can come over on a Saturday

and pay me cash like you’re buying my used guitar.

Now it’s your guitar. Go get some BBQ ribs.

Grab a chicken bucket and take your family to a park

and show your son what your father showed you,

where to put his hands, how to tune and keep it clean,

a basic episode of bonding he’ll remember forever

and share with his son, and he with his and so on—

a boy’s rite of passage, here in Alabama.

Later he’ll cling to that guitar you taught him to tune,

keep it nearby for the right opportunity—

when the going gets tough or whenever tempers flare,

he can pull it out and play a few sad chords

to calm the damn scene down. Everybody chill.

Good guy with a guitar is here.

Of course many people dislike those guys

and when they play recklessly in public

we instantly understand who we’re supposed to hate:

that fool with a guitar in a crowd of no guitars!

Or is it merely the having—acquiring them

can be edifying if you have the space. Beautiful,

well-crafted instruments of various sizes,

shapes and shades. They look ceremonious

and downright martial on your walls

in imposing rows, expensive collector items

beyond their primary function!

Part of me wants to own a dozen or two

just to revere the objects. Now I wish

I hadn’t sold you mine. I’d have hung it above

the antique display case in our renovated study

near my future mandolin and banjo and sitar.

It used to be our kids’ playroom—

it was tedious and worthwhile to split the toys

between their bedrooms and besides, our youngest

is getting older, better with his hands, more curious

about how things work, how they’re put together,

so it’ll be truly edifying to have all those guitars

on the wall above the flutes and harmonicas

in the display case I’ll leave unlocked

not because I don’t respect their resale value

but so my son and daughter and anyone for that matter

can get their edification on whenever they want

in my decked-out and not-exactly-cheap new study—

a big corner of which will feature a fully stocked (top-shelf)

liquor cart on old-timey bicycle wheels, the wall

above it bare now, waiting for the perfect guitar,

one that plays all the chords at once,

one that plays other guitars,

one that plays itself.