The guitarist with his well-rehearsed finger
Positions dips his toes into the river and sighs:
He’s singing a long forgotten chorus line.
He taps a melody on the shoulder, coaxes
Out its voice, weaves it into his own.
His studded leather fingers stroke the beast, tame it
He caresses its neck and tightens its stretched heartstrings.
His song is rivulets of water running
Down the thin red line between a wrist and a razor blade.
His verse is a poorly tied knot that dumps
Its cargo onto nothing more than soft carpet.
His refrain is the advancement of freight train brake technology.
His harmonies are the phantom branch that catches
One’s shirt as one passes by the bridge.
A Hero with a song worth singing, but he chooses
To remain hidden beneath the willow where the sign reads:
“Danger, Deep Water.”