Guitar Player

Among the shadows of the bar
In the late Malate night,
Perched on a stool on a dais,
You pick the notes,
Strum the rhythm, and pluck
At our hearts. On the hard wood
Of the bar-top your reflection
On a beer stein makes as if you are
Caught inside the glass,
Swirling in the amber liquid,
And we are intoxicated with your
Codas and refrains: The universe
Catches its breath between the verses.
As you pick up the melodic passages
And quote from masterpieces,
You are minstrel and lutenist
Across the ages. The percussions
Follow your lead, mark
Every slide or mute you make,
And we, listeners and accompanists,
The congas and the tambourines,
Hang on to the strings' tiniest utterances.
Mesmerized, mortified by our
Avid hunger for more,
We await the lightest touch of your
Last harmonic. You smile
A knowing smile, you bow at our
Applause and we light a cigarette.

Marne Kilates
26 July 2021