A Psychiatrist’s Guitar Poem

Hear the story of wood,

cut and stained

and carved for someone’s need.

Caress the smooth neck

a palm can praise.

Smell mahogany

shaved and steamed,

fragrant as cinnamon.

Rake, slide, bend

tense strings,

make them breathe

each note.

Follow silver steel

over the bridge

from body to head,

each cord vibrating

when skilled hands

and callused fingertips

pick sweet equations

where practice becomes song.

Listen for a minor key,

all the patience and flesh

in the finish,

like a man

in my office

composing a life.