This Old Guitar

It always sits
On a stand by the window
Just waiting for the right time
Or the right line

12 strings become 11
When I wait until next summer
to change that high “E”

So much of my life seems wrapped up
In that thing
It’s almost become like another arm

I used to picture myself with it,
Playing in front of millions
These days more often than not
I just sit and play to no one in particular

To God, to the birds, or to the television set
�seems a little different than a stadium
But I guess it’s all fine in the end

To whoever will listen
(Why is that so important?)
If I really knew, perhaps
I wouldn’t be here writing these lines

Like a permanent fixture
In a temporary space
That piece of wood with wire
Wrapped around it
Finds a friend again

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