While your guitar gently weeps
mine walks from rung to rung
on the nether clef
filling a space
between the drums and
whatever else there is
if it’s done right
it’s almost not there
conscience does
the same thing
minor thirds
fourths half diminished
we don’t flat our fifths
we drink them
my bass has never lied
never tried to fool me
just plays back what I tell it to
and if I try any funny stuff
she warns me with a fuzzy sound
that makes my fingers burn
so that you and that guitar of yours
can walk in my footprints

Read this poem on Apple News.