Neighbor Jon has come
to grace my flat
with hollow body guitar meanderings,
working the old rocker
like waves at the seashore.

Big chords come at high tide,
washing up under the boardwalk
as we board the haunted house car.

Small pluckings roll in at low tide,
when we take the little children into the breakers,
breaking them in to the concept
of salt water sea foam
for the first time.

Neighbor Jon
is the upstairs patron saint
of guitar tides.

A position he is about to accept.