If I Were a Poet

Against the corner leans an old guitar
remembering a distant golden age,
bellowing rebellious songs in bars,
strutting in her costume on the stage.

What could it be that led to this neglect?
The dissonant chords of discordant lovers—
or just one final chorus fading to
a quiet coda of complacency?

“What’s old is new” is sometimes true, but
maybe not until the new has lost its thrill.
The costume she once wore is put away,
Her strings are out of tune, dull and gray.

From where she leans, resigned but not content,
she sees he’s found another instrument.