He named his first guitar Archie
And carried it wherever he traveled.
It was sleek and blue with
A white stomach and six strings from its head to its feet.
He performed on the subway for a swarm of beautiful girls-
Or anyone with a good taste for poetry.
The gentlemen tipped their hats and expensive coffee cups to the man,
Offering snaps of encouragement.
The man’s fingers were gracious danseurs that quickly
Chasséd and Relevéd,
Up and down the neck of the guitar,
Never afraid to take a risk.
They followed a unique and mesmerizing rhythm;
The notes were dancing shades of violet and blue
Which painted the metro’s seats, windows and of course,
The faces of its passengers.
Some observers would become so entranced
That they would miss their stops
And end up on the streets of Queens or The Bronx.
But those who truly fell in love with Archie and His player
Would wind up in Manhattan, where they had embarked just hours before.
As the man sauntered down a familiar street of familiar voices,
He played the song his mother used to sing when she washed the dishes,
And the song that played at his brother’s funeral.
The crowd followed admiringly behind, and only disbanded once
The man had reached his apartment.
Once he climbed a thousand steps to the top floor, he crawled
Into bed, tucking his guitar beside him.
Within minutes, he had drifted to sleep,
Ready to explore New York with Archie in the morning.

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