A hundred or more guitars hung high on the wall like a choir holding a silent note in unison, mouths forming perfect O’s as if waiting for a nameless conductor to snuff the note with a tight fist. Of all the guitars displayed, I really only saw one: a Washburn acoustic, stained a dark greenish-blue, nearly aquamarine; colors I would one day recognize in the deepest shores of Puerto Rico at high noon. The guitar was oceanic in its own way, emitting a rich, lingering tone from within, like the low, throaty moans of deep-sea geologic forces.

Dearly Beloveds,

This f***in’ year, am I right?

Everyone here calls me "Hon" or "Darlin'", especially the women.

I remember those Saturday mornings,

staking pain, calculating

the subtotal in my head.

Must remain below thirty dollars.

Now would be the time to craft carefully worded comebacks

designed to slice cleanly and precisely

through those snide remarks

 by the three rotund, interchangeable, red-faced

white Southern boss hogs with thin white hair.

You were born

to birth joy continuously.

Whoever keeps bumping this table with the lotus bowls needs to be more careful!

I suppose the pixie cut was a subversive call to arms.