I got me a guitar.
The life of my hands jumps
the strings, forcing words out my mouth
with a sound of thunder popping, so
remember, this ain’t no opera,
where neon lights crackle with sizzle
and busted dreams lay scattered
in alley suitcases, cracked open like
eggs snapping on a griddle of grease,
spattering a life, pulling in the clouds
and drinking the rain as it falls on
city streets shining out the dirt like chrome
and making gum stained sidewalks
appear as glass as I play that here
guitar.
Roger Singer 