I was in the old house, on the woody hill
in Montclair, where so many dreams begin
my guitar, the Norman I bought last summer
had developed a serious case of the bends,
it was buckling and coming apart in so many places
the wood crumbling like beef jerky,
and there in his little workshop a bearded man
a luthier I think, expert
accoustic craftsman made grave diagnosis
with a twinkle in his eye
that led me to believe there might be some hope
he could salvage
we went to work, he and I, taking the damn thing apart
as the house turned into a commuter train
he the conductor, following the jagged
contours of the japanese coastline as we worked on this
thing fitting pieces like a jigsaw puzzle
suddenly emerging from the forested, hilly coast
straight ahead skimming the bay, and winding up at
a nature theme park, I got out with my ticket
asking directions back to Tokyo
in a language no one could understand, maybe english
the train had taken off
my guitar puzzling hero with it
still fighting to save the life of an acoustic
while I wandered around in my usual daze
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