We’re in the pre-boarding group, the first
of those who need extra time—
no questions—when a tenor voice
behind me asks if there’s room in the closet
to stow their guitar. The blue-suited
attendant says no, but thank you for asking.
I can’t imagine it fitting in the overhead,
bin, premium space that it is. Halfway
down the aisle, we hear: Sir, sir!
When neither of us—the only people
on the plane so far—turns she calls Guitar! Guitar!
It seems the closet is free after all.
(Nothing hidden, no shame.)
On landing I see they’re dressed like me:
tee-shirt, baggy jeans, the same lace up
boots. Their hair, shorter than mine,
but longish. Two shiny butterfly clips
keep it from falling in their eyes.
Not in the closet, neither sir, nor madam,
we are guitar, guitar, guitar!
