I am an empty guitar case,
Sitting dejectedly at the feet
Of an unshaven busker,
Lid open and velvet interior
Begging for something to
Be placed inside it—except
I never wanted crumpled
Green bills or rusty coppers.
I wanted a well-loved guitar,
Filling me as if it were molded
To my shape. I wanted silent
Melodies humming under a
Closed cover—life that sings
Internally and is not meant  
For other’s entertainment.