There is a stuck bit.
Cat pouncing on her prey of air, shadow and string.
The lover whistles Star Wars and asks,
addresses the cat, then removes his guitar from its case and sits.
Tuning and tinkering. Nimble fingers remember rhythms and patterns
like a young boy calling his dog out to play fetch.
It's a game they both know quite well
boy, ball and dog
fingers, strings and vibrations.
When he sits in the corner, strumming, what a beautiful dance of plunking,
strumming, pressing, face scrunching,
head tilted down and slightly to one side
encouraging the notes to come forward like shy little children,
ever so gently, ever so persistently.
There's a luxurious, honeyed serenity in his expression,
a silent joy.
The beauty of concentration wrapped delicately in each of his movements.
'barassed, looking over now and again at this spy.
He stops playing.
And again they waSH over me.
He switches guitars and addresses the cat a second time.
again f l o w i n g notes.
His left pinky curls in and out ever so slightly about the air
while the other fingers press down on the strings, so rapidly
as to land in a blur.
He moves the capo up and down the neck
slipping from one song into the next,
protests at my request for further playing
but hugs in his guitar in for one final tune.
Whatcha doin' over there?"