Empty Suitcase and an Aeolian Washburn

Unable to travel,
I won’t be making

the annual trip
to that city –

thirty four years
and never missed –

so moving in
a tight space

to put the empty
suitcase away

it’s knocked over to
fall and brush across

the Washburn
on its stand,

open-tuned to E,
and though not

a beginning to a blues
it is the perfect chord

playing how many
good things remain.

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