Three Chord Monte

Kenyon Wells

Strumming now for all he’s worth
which he thinks once in awhile,
ain’t really a helluva lot;
his brown fingers strewn with purpose
across that shiny old guitar neck
like so many worms on a polished stick
wriggly up and down, lively like,
in a tablature. . . I, IV, V. . . C, F, G.
He coaxes rhythms from his trusty dreadnought,
tuned by God and the Devil hisself he says,
its finish gone to a sweet honey fade
in cahoots with the voice in the worn man.
No need to leave his pleasant claim
where regular folks hurry by distracted,
where irregular ones parade by satisfied,
toward the very same day,
dropping jack and dreams, regardless,
into his brown paper sack.