A naked man with a guitar isn’t naked.
Music pretends to be building a house
without walls to shelter our aches, but
the guitar isn’t an ark or island marked
with an X on a burning treasure map.
The Sunday of padres eating pears after
Mass, the Sunday of fragile amnesia,
the Sunday in which children draw
the sun without the genitalia soon to
bewitch them. We are sure that silence
will enfold us when we sleep, flee time.
Monday returns to us with lies to file.
© Rane Arroyo