Ode to my guitar in your living-room closet

Closed in your closet,
next to the vacuum,
leaning against the wall
with its head in the coats,
my guitar dutifully waits.

Hand-made guitar
of rosewood and cedar,
Spanish guitar that kissed you
with body vibration
and starry sound.

Each day it waits in silence,
remembering the times it touched you.

It remembers in the darkness,
beneath the coats, alone.

(But sometimes a Patagonia jacket
will rest a sleeve upon its shoulder).