Guitar is a Suitcase

Lately
all of the chords
seem frail
and old.
The stories
they try to tell
are fretful
and full of
tired affectation.
This ship
has navagated
its frame
to zero degrees
latitude and longitude.
The anchor vomits chain
over the mind's fo'c's'le
and it pours into the deep.
The Lawless Joe
gave me a tool
for just such circumstances
as the one
I have befallen into.
It's a small tape measure;
thin metal band spooling out
from a tiny silver casing.
Weave it through the strings
above the alnico pickup
and play out some slack.
With everything plugged in
and the guitar laying flat,
the application of e-bow
lets loose
mallard trombone flock squall
and
pinto violin herds of sinewed whinny.
The prayers of the animal kingdom
loosed through a fender deluxe.
After all,
a guitar is just a suitcase,
only as worthy
as the cargo it carries.